RWBY: Ascendant Spark
by Ferox the Mad
Summary: In the dangerous world of Remnant, lives can be brought to ruin in the span of a single night. Here is written the grim yet mighty origins of a boy who fights against fate, forging a new life from the ashes of his past and the searing fires of combat! Forced to live within a brutal den of monsters and murderers, can he ignite the inner spark of power he needs to survive?
1. Nightfall

**RWBY: Ascendant Spark**

"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars." ― Kahlil Gibran

Chapter 1 — Nightfall

A muffled thump dragged Leon Ferox out of his dreams. He lay on the bed, eyes still groggy and only half open, and listened for the sound to return. Seconds passed, and he was beginning to believe it had just been a figment of his imagination when the sound made itself known again. _Thump_. The noise then started picking up the pace. _Thump. Thump. Thump. _Never before had he heard this sound, and as a thirteen-year-old boy who often lay outside under the brilliant light of the shattered moon, he'd believed he had heard every sound nature had to offer.

Suddenly excited at the prospect of seeing a new natural phenomenon, he threw the blankets off the bed and practically flew to the doorway. In his rush, he slammed headlong into the solid wood of the door, having forgotten it was closed. Leon never was one for elegance. Shuffling around in the dark for a few seconds, he finally found the doorknob and hurriedly turned it. He knew it was a frosty night outside and that he was clad only in shorts and an undershirt, but his curious excitement ousted any of those concerns from his mind. If he took the time to change into something warmer, he might miss...whatever it was he was fumbling around a dark house to see. It was as he stomped toward the stairway, his throbbing forehead reminding him that if he didn't slow down he would most certainly trip down the steps _again_, that he heard the clatter of breaking glass.

Leon paused mid-step, afraid that it had been his trampling around that had caused it. Daring not to make a sound, he crept to the banister and peered over, checking for the lights that would indicate his parents had heard. Nothing yet. Nervous, he began his descent. Halfway down, the lights did flick on, and with them came a very angry and surprised shout from a gruff male voice. His father. Excuses were running through his head when he heard the most horrific screech he had ever heard, a call more primal and bloodthirsty than most people could even imagine.

Without a single thought toward his own safety or terror, Leon charged down the rest of the stairs. As the last step was cleared, a deafening _BANG _cut through the screech and replaced it with a low, wet gargle. He dashed into the kitchen to see a mass of black and white lying on the floor in a pool of red. Standing tall with his boots in the blood was his father, brandishing One-Liner_. _It was currently in its revolver form, and the barrel was smoking. The falchion blade was tucked away, forming the bottom half of the boxy barrel.

Leon's father, Arcturus Ferox, had the appearance of a classical swashbuckler about him. He was strong in body, with hardened muscles and a confident stance, but was not large in stature. His movements were always rhythmic and nimble, and whenever he got into a scrap with outlaws or monsters he employed swift strides and precise strikes to outlast and overpower his opponents. He grew his wavy, ebony hair down to his shoulders, and as far as Leon could remember, no force on Remnant had ever tussled it in any way. To compliment his almost exotic countenance, Arcturus shaved his facial hair into an odd but endearing combination of mutton chops and upper mustache. A muttonstache, if you will. His elegant face, normally jovial and content, was now set in a stern line as he gazed analytically upon his fallen foe.

With closer scrutiny, Leon saw that the shape on the floor was vaguely humanoid, but with skin as dark as shadow. The round from One-Liner had torn a hole through its chest and a thin red line was carved into what appeared to be its face. One-Liner's blade must have struck before the bullet. In contrast to its general bodily structure, its head was that of a nightmarish beast. Two broad ears rested on either side, which extended upward into points. A short snout protruded from its face, with an scrunched-up nose and a gaping mouth wide enough to swallow a human skull. Said mouth housed two long rows of vicious-looking teeth, including eight fangs three times as long as the other teeth. The eye that hadn't been gored by the falchion was as red as the blood that was splattered around the scene. And on the top of its head he saw the bony carapace, marked with malicious red runes, that was the trademark of Grimm. Quickly scanning the rest of its body, he noticed many more plates and spikes of bone situated about its body like armor. Plates rested from shoulder to shoulder and around its collarbone, as well as its kneecaps and, he thought he saw, running down the length of its spine. Spikes jutted out from the spinal plates, as well as the elbows, the plates of its head and shoulders, and just underneath the knuckles. Its fingers were slightly longer than a human's and more slender. They ended in frighteningly lethal-looking claws, about half a foot long and marked by jagged edges that made it look serrated. Oddly, he noticed that the thing had four small, bat-like wings sticking out of its upper and lower back. One more trait that was different from the other Grimm was that it had rudimentary clothing. A very shredded cloak hung around its torso and down to its waist.

Leon was very familiar with the soulless creatures of Grimm, his father being a Huntsman and all. Father had an entire trophy room full of taxidermic recreations of his slain quarries. Many times his father had even taken Leon with him on small hunts...but only with the permission of his mother, Lucia. Luckily for them, she had an innate appreciation for battle despite not being much of a fighter herself. She'd met his father after he'd risked his life to save her from a large pack of Ursae who had slaughtered her safari group in the Forever Fall forest. Their hired guard had turned tail and ran at the first sight of the beasts, leaving the group defenseless. Lucia had managed to hold out until Arcturus happened upon them by appropriating the safari jeep and plowing into any ursa that got too close. Needless to say, after the dangerous ordeal was dealt with, they quickly fell in love.

Many years later, Lucia daily sat on their porch and watched happily as her husband trained their son in the combat arts, hoping he might one day follow in his footsteps. Leon had the build for it, as living outside the walls of Vale, even by only a few miles, required quite a lot of physical labor to keep the household running.

Despite the experiences he'd had with Father, this creature was completely alien to him. Never had he heard of a Grimm monster with the shape of a human. He could tell by the somber look on my father's face, however, that he had an idea of what this thing was. He gave a low, heavy sigh and brought up his left hand to stroke his mustache as he often did when contemplating and planning. A few seconds passed before he growled, "Thrice-cursed parasite. Supposed to be extinct, you are. So why did I find you busting my glass door and trying to eat my family? And where's the rest of your damned colony?"

Unsure of what he was saying and worried by his mention of a colony, Leon mumbled, "Parasite? Father, what is that thing?"

He jumped ever so slightly and turned my way. "Leon! God above, boy, don't sneak up on me like that. It would kill me if I accidentally slapped you across the room, you know."

Leon flinched at the exclamation. Father must have been truly spooked by the encounter. Normally the scolding would put Leon down, but the recent excitement had him holding his ground. Instead of asking again, however, he just looked inquisitively at the dead Grimm.

Catching his gaze, Father sighed again. "Son, have you ever heard the old folktales about demons that soar through the air and suck the blood of their prey?"

Now that he mentioned it, the idea did seem faintly familiar. He racked his brain trying to recall it, but it just wasn't coming. Father saw this and decided the situation was too pressing for riddles.

"Sanguinics. Flying, carnivorous filth, thought to have been hunted down and destroyed ages ago. They preyed too much upon the old towns, and became the prime target of Huntsmen and Huntresses everywhere. Entire armies would be called to raze the colonies they found. None have been sighted for centuries. By God, if they're back, this explains the recent string of rural slaughters…"

He trailed off at this, and suddenly a look of horror flashed across his face.

"They never hunted alone. Always with their colony. Always! And never without direction from the archsanguinic…So where are the rest?"

As soon as the words left his mouth, we heard something stomping down the hall. Immediately on edge, Father drew One-Liner and aimed it in the direction of the sound. The shape that turned the corner was no Grimm creature, though. Even in the dim light, Leon immediately recognized his mother. Lucia had a daintily beautiful frame, a princess to match her hero. Well, a princess that was liable to grab anything within arm's reach to use as a bludgeoning tool if she needed to defend her family and home. She was clad in her ivory nightgown, and her flowing, midnight blue hair, which she had given to Leon, was somewhat unkempt. Her hazel eyes were wide in surprise as she took in the carnage that littered their kitchen.

"Arcturus, where the hell did that thing come from? Dammit, I told you we should have bought that shotgun while we were in town!"

The answer came in the form of another _thump_.

Only this time, it wasn't just one. It was followed by a rhythmic _thump-thump-thump._ As the sounds got louder, more seemed to join in. _Thumpthumpthump-thumpthumpthump_. After seeing the dead sanguinic, Leon knew it could only mean bad things. He stared desperately at Father, praying that he knew what to do. But the louder the sounds became, the more color drained from his face. Mother caught this and all her bewilderment was replaced by creeping fear.

"Honey…? Is...is our problem bigger than this one Grimm?"

His solemn response was to reload the expended round. He then stepped over to his wife and pulled her into a deep kiss. After a few seconds, he pulled away, looked her in the eyes and said, "I love you, Lucia. I always have and always will."

He then turned his gaze to his son. "Leon, things are about to get bad. Really bad. You need to get your mother to safety….I just hope I can distract them long enough."

Leon couldn't believe what he was hearing. Distract? Father was an honest-to-God Huntsman, a vanquisher of all evil. He was invincible. So why did he look like he already had one foot in the grave?

"You mean defeat, right, Father? You're going to fight them off while I get Mother to a hiding place?"

He knelt in front of his son and embraced him in a way he never had before. Though it was never said, he could feel the finality of it. It was a goodbye.

"No matter what you hear, you don't turn back, and you don't let them touch either of you. I'll try to make enough noise so they don't notice you. But take the sword off the mantle and cut down any who get in your way."

The cacophony was nearly deafening now. Leon realized with a sense of hopelessness that it was the flapping of wings. Possibly _hundreds_ of wings.

"I'll make them pay for it. I may fall, but I won't do it quietly. I'll leave a mark they won't ever recover from."

He couldn't even fathom what Father was telling him. Arcturus Ferox, the seasoned warrior, a destroyer of hundreds of Grimm, didn't even believe he would make it out of this fight alive?

"Dad…" Leon barely managed to say the one word. His throat was choked and his vision was becoming blurred by tears.

The hideous orchestra of wings was joined by a chorus of screeches.

"Go, Leon! Run!" No more time for sentimentality.

Galvanized into action, Leon grabbed Mother by her wrist and pulled her along into the living room. There he yanked the short-sword off its resting place gave it a few quick twirls to test its weight. Fairly light, made for swift swings and thrusts.

By the time he'd acquired the blade, the screeches had reached the backyard just outside the house. Father waited for them to come to him, though, so he wouldn't get surrounded by the sheer numbers of the horde. Although aware of the dangerous situation, both Leon and his mother paused to watch Father blow away the first trio of sanguinics to burst through the shattered door. He followed up with a fourth blast, as well as a fifth and sixth in rapid succession. Requiring a reload for any more shots, he opted instead to have One-Liner transform into the falchion form. With the flick of a switch, the lower half of the barrel fell out in five segments, then rapidly floated forward and stacked magnetically on top of each other until they formed the three-foot long blade of a falchion. The hilt, previously situated in a diagonal angle, turned upward into a straight hilt and elongated slightly. And with a determined battle cry, he darted forward and started swinging.

They knew that it was past time to escape, so they quickly flung open the door leading to the basement stairway. In their rush, they took the steps two at a time. There was no door in the basement that led outside, but there were a few windows. As they approached the nearest one, however, their exodus was halted by the squealing face of a sanguinic. In its bloodlust, it simply busted out the window with its forehead and began to claw its way in like a beowolf into a rabbit's den. Lucia quickly moved under the stairway, searching for anything she could use as a weapon.

Adrenaline kicking in, Leon leapt forward and shoved the blade of the short-sword up into the monster's head from beneath its chin. It was an instant kill, but the victory was short lived. The limp body began slide slowly through the small window, and Leon realized it was being pushed to make room for another. He also heard the other window break, and snapped his head to look at it. Two sanguinics were clawing at each other to force their way in before the other one.

Backing away from the windows, he ordered Mother to get back onto the stairway and positioned himself into a defensive stance, just as Father had taught him. He then calmed his mind, emptying it of all but the threats in front of him. One sanguinic managed to shove its counterpart back and it threw itself into the basement. Without pause, it stumbled forward in an effort to claw at him. Leon sidestepped and slashed at the left of the torso, carving a red line into its flesh. The creature collapsed to the ground, allowing Leon to turn and drive the sword into its back, skewering the left lung. It squealed, and then went silent.

The third sanguinic crawled in through the same window and, unlike its predecessor, it landed on its feet. This one jumped into the air so as to land on top of Leon. In response, he rolled under it and righted himself facing its back. The monster landed, but only succeeded in slashing the concrete floor. As the sanguinic looked down in confusion, Leon stepped forward and thrust his blade into the side of its neck. As he pulled the blade back out, the monster fell with a small jet of blood spurting onto the ground.

By this time, the dead sanguinic blocking the first window had been successfully pushed through, allowing another to force its way inside. This new arrival, upon seeing its three dissolving brethren, screeched and charged at Leon. It was faster than its allies, and Leon barely had enough time to dive to the side and avoid getting beheaded. As it was, he still sustained a minor cut on his right shoulder. Not an incapacitating wound, but still painful. The sanguinic might have been able to turn and finish the job, but it slipped on the blood that had begun to pool over the floor. The beast's momentum carried it forward and it slammed into the wall. Leon got to his feet and took advantage of his foe's predicament, swinging his sword in an upward diagonal slash that severed both of the creature's right wings. It dropped on its back with a squeal, and Leon brought his blade down into its chest.

Leon stood there for a few seconds, panting heavily. The battle had begun to wear him down, and looking at the windows, he saw that another wave was about to enter behind the first. Leon knew he couldn't hold out for much longer. The basement would soon be overrun.

And just as the thought passed through his mind, he heard a commotion behind him. Turning his head, he saw that another sanguinic had somehow snuck up on him, possibly from the direction he and his mother had come from. The creature was mere feet away, too close for the unprepared Leon to dodge. But just as the sanguinic brought back both arms to slice him into tiny bits, something else moved at it from further behind. Then it was battered aside in a crash of shattering wood, allowing Leon to see that he'd been saved by his mother, who was now holding the broken remains of an old oaken stool. Before the beast could get back up, Lucia stabbed it repeatedly in the face with the splintered ends of the stool legs, screaming, "Don't. Touch. My. Child. You. Little. Bastard!"

Once the sanguinic was dead and dissipating, Lucia dropped her improvised weapon and grabbed Leon in a relieved embrace. Leon hugged her back as she tearfully told him, "Oh, you've got to be more careful, Leon. Your mother won't always be around to watch your back, you know." The two smiled at each other for a brief moment, until another round of screeching brought them back into their grievous situation.

The pair broke apart and ran back to the stairs. Leon had her go up first and then followed her until the halfway point. There he paused, hoping to fend off the monsters that had crawled inside and congregated at the bottom step. He swung his sword rapidly through the air in front of him in an effort to make the sanguinics stay back. One of them must have been too blinded by bloodlust to be intimidated, for it screeched and leapt at him, its left arm flinging forward in an attempt to gut him. Leon swung again, this time severing the arm of his attacker. He followed up with a front kick to its exposed chest. The creature tumbled back down the stairway and bowled over a good portion of its allies. Before the rest of the invaders got their footing, the Leon had bolted up the steps and slammed the door behind him. He then pushed the nearby chair to block that entrance, at least temporarily. He was sweating profusely, and it was starting to run down his face. He soon realized that it wasn't just the fighting, though. The temperature of the house had risen substantially.

Only then did Leon look to where Father had been fighting, and he saw his silhouette and those of the invading sanguinics still clashing atop a huge pile of dead monsters against a roaring fire. Leon had no idea how _that_ might have started, but at least it seemed to be burning some of the colony.

As he was momentarily fixated on the blaze, he didn't notice the pounding on the front door until it was already splintered and folding in the middle. When he finally did notice the problem, Leon realized with a shock that would give way in mere seconds.

And Lucia was standing only a few feet from it.

"Mom! Get away from—!" That was all he had time to scream before a massive hulk of a sanguinic crashed through the door and fell upon Mother.

Leon's very soul felt like it was thrown into the blaze as he witnessed this hideous behemoth drive its claws into Mother's chest and stomach. Small rivers of blood flowed around its fingers and spilled to the floor. When her eyes widened in shock and she gave a gasp of what wasn't pain, but of sudden numbness, the monster sank its teeth into her neck. Instead of sucking her blood out, as many legends claimed sanguinics did, it simply tore out her throat. If Leon had any reason remaining at the time, he would have thanked God she had already passed before feeling that.

As it was, while his heart wept vehemently for his beloved mother, Leon's mind and body made the flames their own. His vision grew as red as their accursed eyes. With a roar of primal rage, he charged headlong at the beast that was bringing his life to ruins. He leapt on the sanguinic and thrust the blade into its chest. As it was still savoring the taste of his mother's blood, it failed to even take notice of Leon until the sword had pierced through the creature's chest and out its back. It gave a furious screech, but it did not fall. Instead it swatted Leon off with the back of its hand, the spike on it giving him a fairly deep cut on his left cheekbone. The sword stuck fast in its chest and it was wrenched out of his hands. He flew almost ten feet before crashing into the wall and collapsing to the floor. Though he was certain a few ribs were broken, his fury and adrenaline allowed him to ignore most of the pain. Leon immediately stood up, intending to charge at it again, but the sanguinic was faster than he thought a seven-foot-tall beast could possibly have been. Before he could even turn his fiery gaze upon the monster, it raked its claws across Leon's back. He felt a great ripping sensation on his skin, and suddenly the flames in his mind overtook his consciousness. _This_ pain would not be ignored. Leon gave a great cry and collapsed again onto the ground.

He landed facing his father, who had heard his pained yell. And as he bore witness to the mutilated body of Mother and Leon's limp, barely conscious form lying upon the blood-soaked floor, he roared much as his son had. One-Liner had been returned at some time to revolver form, and Father brought it to bear on the massive sanguinic. He let loose a blast right into the center of its mass. The monster almost managed to sidestep it, but the round caught it in one of its left wings. Another screech, and it broke into a dead run toward Father.

At this point, Leon's vision began to black out, and he only caught portions of the ensuing duel. By some unspoken command, the other sanguinics did not interfere. What was left of his mind realized that this must be the archsanguinic. One-Liner was back in falchion form now, the bottom half of the blade having flipped up first, and the top half flipping up from around the bottom and compressing inward to form the thin, sharp edge. Leon saw Father duck under a clumsy swipe by the arch. He then stepped forward and slammed his shoulder into its chest, right beside the embedded hilt of the short-sword. Leon's vision faded again, and then came back.

Father spun and swung One-Liner in a downward diagonal arc, trying to cleave the arch in half. The arch brought up its right hand, hoping to parry it with its spike. The blade was stopped, but not without nearly severing the spike. The arch snarled and leapt back. As the blade was separated from the spike, it snapped off. Fading. Vision returns.

The arch swiped low at Father's knee, and succeeded in landing a hit. Father's aura must have been depleted by the colony. In retaliation, he brought the hilt of the falchion down upon the back of the arch's head. The blow carried so much force, the bony carapace cracked slightly. Fading. Return.

Father landed a great blow on the arch's left side, the blade sinking maybe two inches into its skin. But a far worse wound was inflicted by the arch, who leaned forward and sunk its teeth into Father's right shoulder. With a huge cry of pain, Father slammed his left fist into the arch's face, forcing it to disengage its jaws. But the damage was done. One-Liner dropped to the floor and Father's right arm hung . Return.

The archsanguinic gave a triumphant roar and slashed its jagged claws across Father's chest. Father collapsed on his back.

Leon's voice refused to work, so his mind did all the screaming. They'd failed. His father, the invincible Huntsman, now lay on the ground in a pool of not only his blood, but the blood of his loved ones. The sanguinics had just wiped out the Ferox family and would certainly do the same to others. Who would stop them? Would they be stopped? Or would they rise again as a species? The pain had subsided and gave way to a near-complete numbness. Leon could feel the end nearing.

The arch knelt in front of Father and opened his mouth. Even through his static feelings, Leon felt fresh horror at the realization that the sanguinics were going to feast upon their corpses.

But through some act of chance, the arch was halted before the first taste by the collapse of the kitchen ceiling. The fire had spread and was consuming the whole house. Another section of the ceiling collapsed, flattening about a half dozen sanguinic minions. With another cacophony of screeches, the colony began to flee into the night. Reluctantly, the archsanguinic followed.

Before long the entire colony was gone. The Ferox family was alone in their unstable, burning home. Bleeding out. Leon felt his mind finally giving way, and the very last thing he saw was Father struggling to turn his head in order to look at his son, whispering words that Leon couldn't hear over the roar of the flames. But he knew what they were. "I'm sorry."

* * *

"Hey, Hartman! Look over that-a-way! Smoke, and lots of it, boss!"

Hartman averted his gaze from their cobbled path to see what the peon was making such a fuss over. Sure enough, a towering pillar of smoke and ash was slithering its way toward the nighttime stars. Following the plume down to its source, he saw that it originated from the hill about a mile away. The flickering orange light indicated the presence of a large fire.

Intrigued, Hartman ordered his entourage to halt and deliberated on whether investigating would be worth the lost time. In the end, he decided that there could possibly be a few valuables left in the wake of this blaze.

"Move out, you dogs!" Hartman barked. "Let's go see what in Grimm is going on. And if there's anything left to…liberate."

The woods between the path and their destination were fairly dense, so progress was slow. Giant roots tripped his men underfoot and low-hanging branches constantly slapped them in the face. The closer they got, the more the smoke had them all coughing and hacking. By the time they reached the foot of the hill, the inferno had begun to die down. Only a low crackle remained of the earlier conflagration.

Hartman turned to address his men. "Ok, boys. Listen up! This fire may or may not have been just the product of some accident, but I haven't lived this long taking chances. I want weapons drawn and ready to shoot up a storm at a second's notice! Got it!?"

All replied with affirmative grunts and nods of their heads. And with that, they began to march up the hill.

Upon reaching the apex, all that was visible were the crumpled ruins of what might have once been a decent abode. Now it was only a large pile of ashes, charred wood and a bit of seared brick. Smoke still rose from the ruins, though no longer in gagging amounts. Most of the hill was covered in lush grass, but around the pile laid only blackened dirt. A fine layer of ash covered the grass that remained.

Hartman observed the destruction, but nothing of interest caught his eye at first. No valuables, no bodies, nothing. Just rubble. _Well, if there's anything worth looting in this mess, we'll have to work for it._

By which he meant his subordinates would have to work for it. "Alright, dogs! Be good boys and sniff around this place. Grab anything that looks valuable."

His goons didn't waste any time getting to it, though they did waste breath on the typical grumbling and griping. Likely the same old complaints, the usual insults to everything that couldn't hear them. Hartman was well aware that he was the target of some of the worst of it, but he let it slide as long as he never heard a whisper of it. After all, he'd been in similar shoes during his career in the Atlas military.

And he knew that none of them would dare to say anything his ears could pick up. Not after what happened to the first, and last, smart-mouth who'd shown Hartman disrespect.

"Hey, Hartman! Looks like we got a body here! It's covered in so much soot that I can't even tell if it's a man or a―"

He was cut off by an earsplitting shriek and a humanoid figure bursting out of the rubble. The man who'd been standing right in front of it got a nasty surprise as the thing slashed at him with jagged claws, slapping the shotgun out of his hands and throwing him on his ass with three new claw marks on his chestplate.

The shotgun landed on the ground, and the flashlight strapped under its barrel illuminated the attacker. Hartman almost couldn't believe his eyes. It wasn't covered in soot at all. Dark skin, white bone plates, jagged claws, and four wings. It was a sanguinic.

One that was assaulting his men. "To the left, boys! Open fire!"

The monster didn't wait around for the men to aim their weapons. It took a short running start, leapt into the air and flapped its four wings furiously. The men took potshots at its fading form, but none even managed a glancing hit. Before long it was out of sight, most likely scurrying back to the rest of its colony.

_Smart little bloodsucker, it was,_ thought Hartman.

Now that the shooting was done, the men were jabbering all around about what they'd seen, or what they thought they'd seen. One walked over to the man on the ground and helped him up. He seemed to have escaped injury, which was fortunate. It saved them from using some of their medical supplies.

Now Hartman turned back to address the men. "Well," he yelled at them, "don't just stand there yammering about! We can debrief later. Your job isn't done until you show me something good."

They continued their task for a good half hour with no results. It then occurred to Hartman that if it had been a sanguinic attack, the blasted parasites would most likely have swiped anything shiny before they fled the scene. Still, the information that the sanguinics still lived was worth the hike over here. It could do good for the Burrow to capture a few live ones and transport them back. It would be just the exciting twist they'd been searching for. He then made a note of which way the straggler had fled, for that was the likely direction of their colony.

Hartman was about to call off the fruitless looting session when a peon yelled out, "Hartman, sir! Another body. This one's not a sanguinic, I'm sure of it!"

Having nothing more pressing to attend to, he decided to stride over and check it out. What he saw was another body, too small to be a sanguinic, and no wings or bony plates on its body. Just four extensive slash marks running across its back.

Hartman nudged the body with the toe of his boot and turned it on its side. It turned out to be a young boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Ash and blood covered his body. His filth-slathered hair appeared at first to be black, but then a flashlight beam revealed that it was a midnight blue. His skin was as pale as the surrounding ashes.

Hartman knelt beside the body and pressed his hand to the boy's neck. The faintest of pulses came back.

_The little son of a gun's still kicking, but just barely. Wounds like those would have killed just about any other kid, and he's obviously been lying there for a good while. Must be tough as nails…_

With that thought, an idea came to him. One more twist.

"This kid isn't dead, but that isn't gonna be the case in a short while. Doc! Get your arse over here and patch up his back! We're taking him with us."

The medic didn't dare question Hartman, but the other grunts looked at each other quizzically and mumbled in confusion. The Hartman they knew never was one for charity. Or mercy.

As the medic worked his magic, another peon called out a second human body. A woman this time. A quick investigation revealed she had deep stab wounds and her throat was torn out. Nothing to check there. Hartman noticed she had the same color of hair as the boy. Might've been the mother.

After a couple minutes, one of the grunts guarding the perimeter called out that a squad of police cars was sighted off in the distance. Almost certainly on their way here. The medic announced that the boy was stable enough to move. No reason to stick around and get interrogated, then. Time to go.

"Pack it up, men! Let's bail before the cops show up. Back to the Burrow!"

***Author's Note***

Well, if you've made it this far, then perhaps you're considering reading the rest? If so, I'd like to extend my cheesiest and yet sincerest appreciation to you for taking the time to read my first real literary work of any substantial length.

Whether you loved it, mildly enjoyed it or thought it was an utter train wreck, I'd love to hear your (constructive) opinions in the reviews section. From now until the end of time, you all are the lights in the darkness. Until next time, stay bright.


	2. Dark Days

**RWBY: Ascendant**** Spark**

Chapter 2 — Dark Days

Leon's eyes slowly slid open.

Wait, what? His eyes were open? How?

He was lying on his stomach atop a cold, stone slab when he came back into reality. At least, he assumed it was reality. The throbbing pain emanating from his back and chest were real enough. He attempted to push himself up, but the instant he started to strain himself his back erupted into pain and he collapsed back onto the slab. Trying a more careful approach, Leon methodically craned his head left, right and forward in an attempt to get his bearings.

The walls, the floor and the ceiling were all made of a dusty red stone. Some sort of cave, perhaps? What the heck was he doing here? The last thing he remembered was…

The sanguinics. The fire. Mother and Father. It all came flooding back in a torrent of heartbreaking memories. And immediately the flood seeped out of his consciousness and through his eyes. The tears dripped down onto the slab and slid off the sides. He couldn't stop them, nor did he have any desire to. Along with his home, his whole life had just gone up in flames.

Leon had no idea how long he laid there, letting out all of his grief. Eventually, a door at one end of the room swung open with a loud creak and an average-sized man wearing dirty white scrubs stepped in. Leon couldn't discern the majority of the man's features, save his neatly groomed black hair, for his face was covered by a surgical mask. His gait, however, wasn't that of an angry jailer or a sadistic torturer. Leon was overcome with the sudden desire to pelt the man with questions, but he also felt that if the man intended to tell Leon what was going on, he would do so of his own accord. So he kept his mouth shut and his eyes open.

The man finally reached the slab and pulled up a nearby folding chair. After situating himself, he gave Leon's back a look over. Then he spoke.

"Welcome back to the world, young man. You've been out for quite some time. Three days, in fact. Understandable, given the circumstances in which we found you. Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

Given their surroundings, the man's seemingly nurturing tone surprised Leon. He tried to respond, to inform the man of all his current emotions. But he couldn't form the words.

"I…I…"

Fortunately, the man seemed to understand. He nodded and brought out a clipboard and pen.

"I can only imagine. Let's start with something simpler, then. I'm Doctor Owens. Would you like to tell me who you are?"

Leon struggled even to form those thoughts, but eventually he replied, "My name…is Leon…Ferox." He paused, and then continued. "I am…thirteen years old. My father…" He trailed off at his own mentioning of Father. A few more tears flowing down, he pressed on. "My father…was a Huntsman. Arcturus Ferox. We…" Another pause. "We were…attacked…in our home. There was a fire…"

Dr. Owens nodded again while scribbling notes on the clipboard. "Yes, I was there with the team that found the rubble of your home. There were also something else alive in the carnage. Shaped like a human, but turned out to be a rare creature of Grimm."

The image of the hideous beasts instantly flashed across Leon's mind. Never would he forget what they were. "Sanguinics," he spat. His anger began to return. "The monsters invaded our home. Started a fire. And they…" The slightest hope sparked in his heart. "Dr. Owens…did you find anyone else in the rubble? My mother or father?"

But the lowering of his eyebrows instantly dispelled any idea of that. "We never found any human man's body. However…" This time it was he who paused. "…we did find the body of a woman. She had hair like yours." Dr. Owens flinched when he saw the grief reappear on Leon's face. "She was already dead. I know it won't mean much, if anything at all, but I am truly sorry for your loss."

In truth, Leon had already known in his heart that his parents were gone. But it didn't make it hurt any less.

"It's my fault she's dead. My fault! I was supposed to protect her, but I failed! I failed and now they're both gone! My fault…" Leon slipped back into his misery.

Dr. Owens didn't interrupt Leon's sobbing. After a good while, Leon finally ceased. At that moment, Dr. Owens stated, "Well, Leon, I'm going to change the bandages covering your back. Also, we gave you an x-ray exam when we brought you here. You have a couple broken ribs. They'll take a month or two to heal. And I can already tell you that the slash marks on your back are going to leave four large scars." And he went about it. Leon could tell that Dr. Owens was attempting to be careful, but his back still felt like it had a hundred shards of glass sticking out of it. The slightest touch set off a spasm of pain. Once the old bandages were off, Dr. Owens squeezed a salve out of a plastic tube onto Leon's back. It was cold to the touch, but it made almost all of the pain subside. Leon couldn't help the gasp of relief that escaped his mouth. New bandages were placed over the salve and around his torso. With that, Dr. Owens started to leave the room, saying, "You'll be moved from this ward to an actual room once your back allows you to walk. Should be a few days, so sit tight."

Before the doctor walked out of the room, Leon called out to him, "Doctor, wait! Can you tell me where we are, exactly?"

The response left him more confused than before. "Oh yes, I almost forgot. Welcome to the Bloody Burrow."

* * *

After the third day, Leon was up and walking. The pain hadn't yet gone away fully, especially concerning his ribs, but he found it was bearable and very preferable to lying on his stomach for hours upon hours. He'd also been given a tiny room near Dr. Owens' office so that the routine examinations wouldn't be too much of a hassle. The room itself was the epitome of basic, containing only a chair, a little folding table, a single light bulb, and a small cot. The only television was in Dr. Owens' office, and the only channel it got was the news broadcast from Vale. He'd been told multiple times that he was not allowed beyond the hallway in which the rooms were adjacent to. Not that Leon was in the mood for exploration. He still couldn't truly come to terms with the fact that his parents were dead. A good portion of his recovery days were spent weeping on his cot. The sessions seemed to get slightly shorter each time, but the road of grief was a long one.

Dr. Owens let Leon catch up on world events outside the Burrow when the news came on. He almost began weeping again when the reporters showed the rubble of his home and confirmed the death of his mother, Lucia Ferox. They also stated that the bodies of Arcturus and Leon Ferox were missing, but samples of their blood had been found at the scene, and they were presumed dead.

This made Leon curious. "Dr. Owens, why has nobody reported that I'm alive?"

His response was brisk. "My superiors decided it would be best to keep you hidden for now." Leon's question seemed to have unnerved him, and the response unnerved Leon.

To fill the awkward silence that followed, Leon decided to change the subject a little bit. "What about my father? You said you didn't see him in the rubble, and the police didn't find his body. So where is he?"

"I don't know for sure, Leon. The best theory I can come up with is that the sanguinics took his body with them so they could…" He didn't finish the sentence, and Leon had no intention of following that line of thought.

The news reporters also interviewed some Huntsmen and Huntresses who had known his father from work. Some of their lamentations felt like they'd been read from a card, but a few of them, mainly the ones whom he'd met, were genuinely mournful.

It seemed that his...protectors, also neglected to inform the authorities of the sanguinic presence, as it was stated that investigators were stumped as to the cause of the carnage. Since Grimm corpses dissolved shortly after death, no sanguinic bodies were around to point them in the right direction. Leon could only hope that someday soon, someone would drag those monsters out of the shadows and bring justice to all their victims.

Whenever the news wasn't on, Dr. Owens offered to get some books for him to read. Leon refused his offer initially, as he had never been one for reading, but eventually he decided that reading would at least give him something to take his mind off current events. Besides, it wasn't like there was anything else for him to do. Over time, he began to enjoy the stories they told, though he often grimaced at some characters' reactions and feelings toward fighting monsters. Leon had done that himself, and had been permanently scarred from it.

There were many days where Leon thought he could hear voices outside the door. The stone walls muffled them, but it was definitely noticeable. There seemed to be a lot of them, but it was impossible to tell what was going on. At one examination, Leon asked Dr. Owens what the voices were and why this place was called the Bloody Burrow. "You'll see," was his cryptic reply. As he said that, something seemed to flash across Dr. Owens' face. Sadness? Regret? Pity? Whatever it was, it put Leon permanently on edge. He had a feeling nothing good would happen when he recovered.

* * *

Leon's ribs were ship shape after his seventh week at the Burrow. During that time, his grief and sadness had begun to give way to anger. Primarily, anger at the monsters who'd taken his life away, but also at his "rescuers" who had barred him off from the rest of this cave. He felt imprisoned within the red stone walls. What was outside it that was so dangerous? Why did Leon have to heal before he could even know the nature of its existence?

Soon after his recovery, however, Dr. Owens informed him that the superiors had ordered Leon to be brought before them immediately. While he was somewhat unnerved by the name and overall feel of this place, he was also impatient to get some answers. Leon followed Dr. Owens to the rusted iron door that he'd been longing to pass through for weeks. The doctor fumbled with finding the right key for a second, then turned it in the lock and pushed the door open. Leon enthusiastically stepped out.

He wasn't sure what he'd expected to find. A sacrificial altar of some twisted cult? A dazzling city hunkered inside a mountain? A secret military base of some unknown rebel group? Whatever it was that he'd thought he would see, it came nowhere close to the gigantic, underground cavern lit up by dozens of rectangular floodlights bolted into the ceiling. In the center of this cavern sat a massive glass dome about two blocks in diameter encapsulating a wide, sandy terrain marked by both short and tall spires of the familiar red stone jutting out of the ground. A few bushels of dried shrubs also dotted the miniature landscape. As he walked along behind Dr. Owens, Leon eventually noticed what looked like rows upon rows of benches situated around one half of the dome. The half directly across from where they walked, to be precise. And as he took in the benches, he noticed something he never expected after his near isolation. Spectators. Hundreds of people forming an active, excited crowd. Though the crowd was far away, Leon could hear their jumbled cheering. They must have been the source of the noises he'd heard during his recovery. Leon was about to ask Dr. Owens what they were cheering for, when he turned his gaze back to the sand-covered pit. There he saw what appeared to be two humans circling each other. Upon closer inspection, he realized the two were brandishing weapons in a defensive stance. The two continued their circle for ten more seconds before one converged on the other.

And as Leon witnessed the attacker drive a sword straight through the other man's chest as the crowd screamed approval, the terrifying truth dawned on him.

The Bloody Burrow was a gladiator arena.

Leon had heard of this highly illegal concept only in books and movies. While arenas such as this were common in the old kingdoms, modern law had banned them. The only acceptable instance of organized, lethal fighting was having students in combat schools train against creatures of Grimm. His late father, who'd dedicated his life to handling the problems the police could not, had only ever heard distant rumors of something like this. And with all of the clearly present crimes occurring all throughout the city of Vale and its outlying territory – robberies, murders, assaults by organized crime syndicates – attention had always been focused elsewhere. So to be planted right into the heart of an arena was utterly baffling. It also raised the question as to why the "superiors" of this crime center had seen fit to rescue a thirteen-year-old boy with extensive injuries from the ruins of his burned house, lug him all the way back to their arena, and treat his wounds.

And then a frightening thought struck him. He didn't want to believe that anybody could do that to someone who'd been through so much, but it seemed like the only reason why they would go through so much trouble on his account.

He was torn away from contemplations by Dr. Owens, who stated, "Here we are. My superiors are inside."

Leon realized they'd stopped in front of another door, this one made from what he thought was a rich mahogany wood. After his realization, he had lost all desire for answers. He was afraid of what they would be, and what they would mean for him. But he knew he had no choice. He had no idea where the exit to the Burrow could possibly be located, or where the Burrow itself was in relation to Vale. The only way to go was forward.

So Leon nodded at the doctor, who turned the handle on the door and pushed it open. Leon forced himself to walk in before he lost his nerve. Once Leon cleared the threshold, the door was pulled shut behind him.

What first struck Leon was the decor of this room. The walls were still made of the same red stone, but ornate shapes were carved into these walls. Most depicted battles—human against human, human against monster, and monster against monster. In addition to the carvings, many paintings hung against the stone. Once again, they all had the central theme of combat, and all had been crafted with painstaking detail. At the far end of the room sat a large oak desk with a computer and a few stacks of papers neatly piled up to one side. And around the desk were two men. One sat behind the desk, and the other stood to the side. The man in the chair appeared almost regal, clad in silk robes trimmed with fur. Oddly, a laurel wreath sat upon his curly chocolate hair. It seemed to be made of pure gold and inlaid with jewels. He was a little on the pudgy side, which gave Leon the impression of an old kingdom noble.

His counterpart, however, emanated nothing but ferocity. He had the stance of a seasoned warrior and a haggard, stubble-covered face that made it seem like he could strike out and snap your neck in a heartbeat. He was massive, almost seven feet tall and with a bulky build. He was also bald, and had a jagged scar running from just beside his right nostril, through his lips and ending on his chin. He was very intimidating, to say the least.

Whatever conversation they'd been engaged in previously was halted as Leon walked in. He forced himself not to start shaking, breathing deeply in and out. If the conclusion he'd come to was true, he couldn't afford to appear weak in front of them.

The two men eyed him for a few seconds before the pudgy one spoke. "So, Hartman. This is your little rescue child? Took him long enough to heal, didn't it?"

Leon took an instant dislike to this man. He'd clearly never had broken ribs before. Most likely, he had been pampered all his life and turned to crime so he could keep his fancy living without much work. That also told Leon that he was most likely going to be very impatient.

At least Leon no longer had to force himself not to quiver. The man's little quip had replaced all nervousness with annoyance.

Hartman, as he was apparently called, opted not to reply in kind, and instead just kept staring at Leon. He wasn't sure what he disliked more—the pudgy man's contempt or this behemoth's piercing gaze.

Eventually, Hartman broke the silence. "So, boy. I assume by now you know what goes on here at the Burrow?" His voice sounded just as Leon had imagined it to be. It was very gruff, but not in a benign way like his Father's had been. Hartman's voice gave Leon the impression that the man was trying to beat him down with it.

Leon lifted his gaze so it was level with Hartman's. It was a difficult feat not to look away, but he managed it. He then replied, "Yes, sir. I saw the end of your last match just a minute ago."

Hartman nodded slowly, as if he was putting all possible machismo into the motion as possible. "Well, then. Perhaps you might have guessed that you aren't a charity case? I brought you here for a reason, boy. The Bloody Burrow has been popular amongst the upper class of each kingdom for many decades now. But lately, Lord Nilloc and I," he gestured to the pudgy man, "have begun to notice a slight decline in attendance. As such, we've decided that these matches need a twist to spark interest again. Seeing you lying still alive in the rubble of your home gave me an idea for that twist. When the news covered the destruction of your home and revealed that your old pops was a Huntsman, I knew my gut hadn't led me wrong."

There was no denying it now. "You want me to fight, don't you?"

Hartman chuckled. "So you aren't just a slab of meat. You can reason a little bit, eh?" Lord Nilloc began snickering with him. "Well, don't go soiling your trousers. You won't be fighting straight away. We're going to train you. And you won't be alone. In the weeks since we picked you up, we went out and gathered other orphans who showed promise. They didn't have the injuries you did, so we kept 'em in the Pit all this time. Course, none of them had a Huntsman for a dad, so we gave 'em a head start in their…conditioning. But now that you're able, the training can begin in earnest."

This news heartened Leon a bit. He wasn't going to have to suffer alone. "So I'll be joining them today, then?"

Hartman gave a small smirk. "That's right, maggot. And after a few days, I promise you that you're gonna think your burning house was heaven compared to the Pit."

The comment was clearly intended to frighten Leon, but it had the opposite effect. Leon balled his hands into fists and stared at Hartman with intensity of a hungry beowolf. "You think that's funny, 'maggot'? You think the death of my family is a _joke_!?"

Lord Nilloc seemed startled by his outburst, like a church pastor would be startled by blasphemy. But Hartman simply chuckled again. "I like your fire, boy. But can you learn to use it when its kill or be killed?" When he didn't receive an answer, Hartman lost his humor. "Well, maggot. Our dear Dr. Owens relayed your little story to us a while ago. You claimed that when the sanguinics were blocking your escape route, you fought them and killed four. And after that you actually charged at the archsanguinic like some sort of psycho." He chuckled. "Sure got a good laugh outta me. But is any of that really true, boy?"

Still gritting his teeth, Leon nodded in reply.

"So, you probably didn't pull that skill outta nowhere, right? You must have some training already under your belt. Probably gonna enroll in Signal once the next year began? Makes my job easier." Suddenly, Lord Nilloc whispered something in Hartman's ear. When the ensuing conversation was finished, Hartman looked back to Leon. "That's all, maggot. I hope you realize I have high expectations for you, which is certainly saying something. If you let me down, you'd better hope it's because you died. Owens! Get him to the Pit!"

* * *

Leon and the doctor had spent a good couple of minutes walking along in complete silence. Leon couldn't help but feel hurt by the fact that this man, who'd been so kind to him these past weeks, had been prepping him for potential slaughter in front of a cheering crowd of bloodthirsty animals in human skin. They continued without a word until Leon simply couldn't take it anymore.

"Why are you working for these criminals? I think you know that what they're doing is wrong, but you haven't lifted a finger to stop it. Maybe just a call to the Vale police, or an anonymous tip to the Huntsmen! That's all it'd take!"

Dr. Owens sighed, and answered, "Leon, my family has served the Nillocs for generations. They've always been kind to us. Granted, it wasn't until the current Nilloc that they turned into a crime syndicate. But it didn't change their support of us. Look, this is the hand I was dealt and I'm not going to throw it all away." At first he spoke to Leon as if all this should have been obvious, but then the doctor cut him some slack. "I know you won't be able to understand. Not yet. But if you were telling the truth about fighting those sanguinics, then trust me when I say that you already have more experience than any of the other 'initiates'. You have what it takes to succeed in here, Leon. You just have to strive for it."

At this point, they'd reached yet another iron door. Dr. Owens flipped through his key ring again and unlocked it. All Leon saw beyond was a very dimly lit tunnel leading down maybe a hundred or so feet to another door.

"Leon…it's going to be really tough at first. But I have faith in you. Find a weapon you're effective with, and master it as best you can. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but Hartman told the other initiates that your father was a Huntsman. He felt you needed an extra challenge down there. This is going to make you a threat to most, and therefore a target. So find yourself some allies. But remember that in the end, you're the only person you can always trust." A touch of sadness now tinged his voice. "Also…if you're ever wounded during training or combat…access to medical treatment depends on Hartman's opinion of your worth. So don't get on his bad side. At least not more than anyone else."

Dr. Owens stuck out his hand. Still uncertain about the doctor's morality but grateful for the advice, Leon hesitantly shook it. "Thank you, doctor…for everything. And don't worry. I didn't survive the sanguinics just to die in some stinking hole." At this, they parted ways. The doctor walked back toward his office, and Leon began his descent into the Pit.

* * *

If his first five minutes in the Pit were any indication, then Leon was going to have an even tougher time in there than he'd thought.

He hadn't taken two steps through the second doorway when something slammed into his back, tackling him to the ground. The arms trying desperately to pin him were human, so this must have been one of the other initiates he'd been warned about. This one was attempting wrap his arm around Leon's neck, hoping to strangle him. Survival instincts kicking in, Leon brought his right elbow up and hammered it into the initiate's side. He was rewarded with a shout of pain, a boy's shout. His grip slackened a bit, but for now it was still holding fast. That soon changed as Leon rained blow after blow into the same spot. At the fifth or sixth strike, the boy finally gave in, releasing him and shuffling away.

Rolling back onto his feet, Leon took a good look at his would-be assassin. The boy looked to be about fourteen, but a few inches shorter and much skinnier than Leon. His pale blonde hair, which was similar to the color of damp hay, was tussled and unkempt. His limbs were fairly thin, but had the vaguest hint of muscle in them. The boy just stood there glaring at Leon with sunken eyes and hugging his right side. Leon knew the boy was in pain, but the look of desperation and anger in his eyes told Leon that he was going to attack again. And so it was that the initiate let loose a high-pitched cry and charged at him. But this time, Leon was more than prepared. Against a more skilled opponent, Leon might have opted for a defensive stance. This youth, however, required only a single massive strike to the chest for the ill-conceived battle to end. As if he had run into a wall, the boy flopped onto his back, gasping for air. Not taking kindly to the unprovoked assault, Leon planted his foot on the initiate's chest and pressed down ever so slightly. A whimper of pain followed the movement.

Assured that the message had been made clear, he eased the pressure off, but kept the foot planted. "I bet you feel pretty stupid, huh?" Leon asked almost casually. "Points for the element of surprise, but it probably wasn't such a bright idea to attack me alone, eh?"

The response came after a coughing laugh. "Not so smart…to assume I'm alone…"

And suddenly two other boys, both almost as well built as Leon, rushed at him from the shadows. They crashed into him like a clamp, and before Leon knew it they had him secured. He struggled, hoping to gain a lucky slip, but it was in vain. Now the ringleader slowly got to his feet, and after a few more coughs, addressed Leon. "I bet you feel pretty stupid, huh?" he mocked. "I'm gonna be blunt: the Burrow is my only shot at glory, and I ain't gonna let you waltz in here and take it for yourself, Huntsman boy." He emphasized his point with a solid punch to Leon's stomach. Leon grunted loudly at the blow. "It's _my_ time!" Another blow, this time to Leon's left cheek. "_Mine!_" A punch to his mouth, cutting his lip. "Got it!?"

Suddenly, Leon flashed back to the extensive pain he endured at the hands of the archsanguinic. He had no intention of ever going through something like that again, especially not at the hands of this runt. As the ringleader brought his arm back for another punch, Leon roared and put all available force into a brutish forward kick. It connected with the ringleader's stomach and sent him sprawling. As his henchmen angrily struggled to keep Leon secured, the ringleader just laid there in the fetal position, clutching his stomach and breathing curses to himself.

Leon was certain the henchmen were going to make him pay for that. He braced himself for the inevitable onslaught of blows, but they never came. What came instead was a _thump_ on the back of the right one's head, followed by his sinking to the ground. Leon could have looked to see who'd done it, but instead decided to bring his newly freed right arm in around to sock the left henchman right in the nose. The impact caused a small crunch, and it was obvious that Leon had broken it. He dropped like a leaf, just like his comrades.

Now that they were out of the way, Leon turned to see his savior. Another boy, but much taller and obviously older than Leon. His hair was jet black and combed back, giving him the appearance of a shady businessman. His face, however, did not match that impression. His emerald eyes had a mischievous gleam and his mouth was currently set in a satisfied smirk. The high cheekbones and pointed chin made him look somewhat like an elf from fantasy books. In his hand he held a splintered wooden baton, which he must have used to strike the henchman with. His other hand reached out to Leon in an offered handshake. Relieved that it wasn't another fist, Leon shook it heartily.

"Thanks for having my back there, man. They really rolled out the red carpet for me, huh?" Leon said to him.

The other boy's reply was almost casual. "Y'know, these pissants pull this crap all the time. Think they're invincible 'cause they outnumber their targets. Well, it was past time someone taught 'em a lesson, and seeing 'em beat ya like that was as good an excuse as any." He turned to glanced at the ringleader, who was still clutching his stomach. "Course, it looks like you might've roughed 'em up good enough yourself. Anyhow, the name's Adrian. Adrian Parnell. And that stupid sod," he pointed to the ringleader, "is Chance Tanner. You must be the Huntsman's kid. Leon, right?"

Leon nodded in response. "Yeah, that'd be me. Didn't realize I was gonna be so popular down here." Looking back at Chance, Leon said, "You said they do this a lot. How long've you guys been down here?"

Adrian thought for a moment. "I'd say about three weeks, give or take. Kinda hard to tell with no clocks or calendars and only one small, barred up window. Most of us have just been scratching marks on the walls with our best guesses at the days."

Well, that didn't bode well. Living like a mole was not an inviting prospect. "Most of us? How many did others these criminals 'recruit'?"

Adrian just sighed in exasperation. "Look, I know you just got here, but I'm not so used to answering questions," he told Leon, "and you seem to have an infinite supply. How about I just show you the rest of the Pit, and hopefully that'll narrow 'em down. It's over this way." Adrian calmly walked over Chance's body in the indicated direction. Rubbing his jaw, Leon stepped on the boy's stomach and got another yelp in response before following.

Adrian led him into another room, one that was much larger than the entry room he'd been ambushed in. But other than the size, the dozen torn-up cots bolted to the walls and the intimidating stalactites looming over the area like malicious daggers, this room was identical to the last. Same rough red walls, same smooth red floor. As to be expected with a near-windowless room, natural light was quite scarce and the only other light source was a small floodlight sitting in a corner with a couple bulbs shattered.

Gathered around the open entrance was a motley group of about seven other boys. They all appeared as if they'd just gone dumpster diving, with filthy clothes that were somewhat torn and grime-slathered faces. It seemed as if Adrian was the only one who bothered to do anything with his hair, as each of the other boys left his shaggy and unkempt like Chance's. Also of note was the fact that not one of them looked noteworthy at all. Rundown appearances aside, they looked like any group you might see walking down the halls of any academy and instantly forget until you see them again at some later time. All manner of expressions played out across their dirty faces: interested, bored, nervous and suspicious. Nobody offered any introductions, however. Nor did Adrian acknowledge any of them. In fact, the others boys themselves seemed to be split into pairs or standing alone. This group wasn't as tightly knit as Leon had initially thought. Just as well, because competing against a large team would undoubtedly been taxing, if not impossible.

So it was that Adrian just strode past the other boys, Leon following close behind. They had stopped beside the cots when Adrian turned and addressed Leon. "Alright, so each Dweller gets a cot and a footlocker for the few possessions they come across. Hartman claimed that we'd be getting some wooden practice weapons when you got here, so maybe tomorrow. Without those, we've just been doing physical exercises that leave us limp as noodles by nighttime."

Adrian paused for breath, giving Leon enough time to ask one question. "Dwellers? That's what we're called? Really?"

Adrian nonchalantly replied, "Yeah, Pit Dwellers. They say the name adds to our mysterious nature, and that breeds a lot of anticipation with the crowd. Whenever Hartman isn't referring to us as 'maggots', that's what he calls us. Nobody else likes it either, but you might as well get used to it. Anyway, Chance isn't gonna lie on the floor all night, so you might wanna stay alert." At this he hopped into his cot and laid down. "I, on the other hand, am gonna get a few winks in. Wake me if someone's tryin' to kill ya again." Adrian then shut his eyes and appeared to have instantly dozed off.

Leon wasn't sure what to think of Adrian. He seemed friendly, and he did possibly save Leon's life. But at the same time he acted as though he didn't have a care in the world. Leon came to the conclusion that Adrian, for whatever reason, wanted to have him as an ally, but would always look out for himself first. It wasn't an ideal situation, but it was preferable to going solo. And Adrian wasn't the only one able to play that game.

At that moment, Leon wanted nothing more than to nod off and get some rest, but he kept Adrian's warning in mind and settled for sitting down on the cot and watching the other boys. Sure enough, Chance and his henchmen stumbled through the entrance and glared hatefully at him and Adrian. But thankfully they did not approach him. Not yet, anyway.

He stayed up for what he thought might have been two hours before he even considered going to sleep. Chance had gotten into his cot, but Leon couldn't be sure if he was really asleep. To check, Leon picked up a nearby red pebble and chucked it over in Chance's direction. It landed with a _CLACK_ by his cot, but Chance didn't show any sign of acknowledgement. Satisfied, Leon collapsed onto his own cot and shut his eyes. He was out within a minute.

* * *

Some training camps used horns or sirens to awaken sleepy recruits. Others blew trumpets or hit buckets with batons. Hartman took it a step further and fired a handgun up into the air multiple times. And that thing was _loud_.

Needless to say, it did its job waking up the Dwellers. As if the gunshots weren't loud enough on their own, the enclosed nature of the pit caused each shot to amplify and echo back. Everyone flew out of their cots as if they'd been poked with a hot branding iron. Hartman sadistically grinned at their terrified shock.

"Did you have a nice nap, maggots!?" he yelled. "I hope so, because I promised to start the training after our final arrival, and I tend to keep my promises!"

If Hartman intended to intimidate Leon with the rude awakening and the high volume of his announcement, then Leon was less than impressed. Neither was Adrian, who just stood there in front of his cot, arms crossed and eyebrows lowered.

"Alright, I want you all to line up side by side in the center, and I want it done five seconds ago!" If Hartman yelled like that all the time, Leon was surprised he never lost his voice.

The other Dwellers scrambled to the center of the room, with Leon and Adrian following close behind.

Everyone was assembled in about fifteen seconds, and once that was done Hartman took the time to glare at each and every one of them individually. Some couldn't hold his gaze and turned their heads away. Many others, however, stared him right back, eye to eye. Leon was no exception. Finally, he spoke. "By now you all should know what it is that goes on here in the Bloody Burrow. We hire gladiators to fight beasts and each other for the entertainment of the masses. Yes, in society this is very much illegal. No, we do not care. The nearest city, Vale, is many, many miles away, and we are well hidden besides. Our audience is composed of only those who we know would never rat us out. Our operations here should never be interrupted." The implication was clear that nobody we knew would know we were here. This place was all we had left. "So what part do you play in all of this? Our current gladiators have shown a decent amount of skill and have provided a decent amount of entertainment. But here at the Burrow, we don't settle for decent. We look at all of you and see untouched lumps of clay. Lumps we can mold into the greatest gladiators of our time. But this life is undeniably dangerous. If you are to survive, you must train constantly, every hour of every day until you are ready to enter the arena. That training will begin today. Right now, in fact. Before we begin combat training, however, I need to know how much you can take. It is time for your first endurance test."

Leon most definitely did not like the sound of that. He was about to say so when he noticed the men with wooden batons standing behind each Dweller. Suddenly apprehensive, Leon turned his head behind him to discern if one was standing behind him as well. Indeed there was, and the man rewarded Leon's awareness by striking him in his back with the baton. The man didn't hold back, and the blow hit with enough force to send Leon sprawling on the floor. As his face hit the ground, Leon saw Adrian gawking at him, his face a mix of astonishment and fear. That look was soon replaced with pain as Adrian and all the other Dwellers were struck in a similar fashion. And once they were all on the floor, the beating continued. Each of the men wailed on the Dwellers, striking them in the arms, legs, back, chest and sometimes the face. Leon attempted to pull his arms over his head, but the man grabbed them, pulled them away and smashed him in the face again. A very tiny voice in the back of his mind told him to fight back, but that voice was drowned out by the _thunk_ of the baton that signaled another eruption of pain. But another voice commanded him to not give in, to stay in it no matter what they threw at him. So Leon gritted his teeth and soldiered through the onslaught. Suddenly, as had happened in his skirmish with Chance, memories of that night boiled into the forefront of his thoughts. Growling fiercely, Leon actually managed to throw a wild punch that hit the man square in the mouth. The man yelled in surprise and pain as his head whipped back. Before Leon could use the distraction, however, the man wiped the blood from his lip and continued his attack, now furious at Leon's insubordination. Leon's anger was once again suppressed by pain.

The room echoed with the cries of the Dwellers for a good two minutes before Hartman barked at them to stop. Leon simply laid there for another minute trying to shut out the pain and not black out. Once he was fairly sure that could be accomplished, he wiped the blood out of his left eye. Looking around, he saw Adrian flung out much like he was. His face had understandably lost its mischievous gleam, replaced by bruises and cuts. Leon could only guess that he looked similar. A few of the other Dwellers were moaning and whimpering, but most were lying still. Surprisingly, Chance wasn't knocked out. Instead, he was groaning and clutching a spot underneath his right eye. A bit of blood was dripping from under his hands and onto the floor.

It was then that Hartman gave another order. "Anyone still conscious stand up now!"

Leon wanted nothing more than to just continue lying on the ground out of both pain and spite. But if this was a test of endurance, then staying conscious would mean nothing without exerting the will to simply stand up. So Leon rolled himself onto his stomach, pressed his hands against the floor and pushed with all he had left in his battered body. And just like that, he was the first one up. Hartman glanced at him, but his cold facial features were a wall that revealed nothing of his thought process. Trailing by a few seconds was Chance, then Adrian, and two other Dwellers after him. And that was it. Nobody on the ground was even stirring.

Now Hartman began clapping slowly with an evil grin on his face. "Congratulations, maggots! You five have just proven to me that you have either the physical conditioning or the extreme willpower required to be superior to the other Dwellers." The grin vanished and was replaced with his normal look of indifference. "Now, then. As a reward for passing this endurance test, you five get to check in with Dr. Owens and have him patch you up a bit. Dismissed!" It took the Dwellers' cloudy minds a moment to process what Hartman had said, which elicited another growl from him. "Well, you all know where the stairs are! Get to it before I change my mind!"

Now they began limping toward the stairway entrance. One of the Dwellers stumbled and fell, and it took a few seconds for him to get back up. Soon Leon lost his footing as well, and almost hit the floor before something caught him and hauled him back up. Turning around, he saw it was Adrian. "C'mon, now. Up ya go." Now Adrian began to collapse Leon's way, but he pushed back so that they were supporting each other.

Before they entered the ramp room, Leon heard Hartman chastise one of the peons. "No, idiot! Leave the rest where they are. They failed the test. So they'll recover on their own or they'll die."

As they trudged their way up to the top of the ramp, the door opened and they saw that Dr. Owens was waiting for them. He noticed Leon in the crowd and gave him an almost imperceptible smile. "Alright, Dwellers. Follow me to the medical ward, and take it easy."

As they made for the doctor's office, Hartman's words finally hit Leon. The knowledge that he might be part of the superior crowd lifted his spirits. _Perhaps,_ Leon thought, _I can make a life for myself in here. Maybe there's hope yet._

Then Adrian said to him, "No…sweat, right? Ya think…think it might be uphill from here?"

And Leon replied, "Y'know…I don't think so. But I do think that…no matter what they put in our way, we'll overcome it. This path is all we've got now…and we're gonna see it through to the end."


	3. A Dangerous Game

**RWBY: Ascendant**** Spark**

Chapter 3 — A Dangerous Game

The barred metal gate must have been of very high quality, because the beasts it contained were thrashing against it with ferocity Leon had never encountered before, even in creatures of Grimm. All the Dwellers knew that Hartman starved the arena beasts before matches, and now it was clear why. Monsters crazed with hunger would be much more exciting, as well as dangerous, opponents than those who killed only due to their dark, primal instincts.

And that was what Leon and Adrian were facing now. Hartman had neglected to inform them which Grimm creatures were waiting behind the gate, but Leon was familiar with their deep, rumbling roars.

Turning to Adrian, he relayed his conclusion. "Gotta be ursae. The growls are too low-pitched to be beowolves. Not sure how many."

Adrian nodded in agreement. "Right then, we gotta stay away from their claws. Those suckers'll make mincemeat out of us."

He certainly wasn't wrong, especially given their choice of armor. Or lack thereof. Both had long since agreed that heavy plates would be far too cumbersome, so they kept it to a minimum. Adrian wore only a half-breastplate on his chest and some wrist braces, with a simple sleeveless shirt underneath. Leon opted to wear those along with shin guards, small shoulder paldrons and a light leather tunic beneath that. The bits and pieces might come in handy in a pinch, but wouldn't hold up against the bulk that an ursa brought to the table.

Just as the words left his mouth, a different, louder voice blasted through the large speakers situated above the viewer benches. "Well, well, well, generous sponsors and valued spectators! It's that time again! Time for another Bloody Burrow Brawl!" At the announcer's trademark proclamation, the audience erupted into excited cheers. After letting them die down a bit, the announcer continued. "You've been watching the Dwellers cut down foe after foe for over four years now! And none have fought so hard as our two stars, Adrian Parnell and Leon Ferox!"

More cheers. Leon knew that most gladiators, the other Dwellers included, loved that sound more than any other. It empowered them, made them feel ten feet tall. It made them feel invincible. When Leon heard it, he only felt disgusted. He could almost forgive the spectators for paying to see full grown adults fight beasts to the death, but now a bunch of teenagers had become one of the most popular attractions here. As far as he was concerned, these people were no better than the Grimm.

Now the announcer continued once again, "Up to now, these two have carved a bloody swath into any obstacle we've put in their way, but the time has finally come to see if they can truly survive in the face of overwhelming odds! Today, they will have to face their greatest challenge yet! As you all have watched, these beasts have maimed, chewed and torn apart gladiator after gladiator! Will the two Dwellers before you be able to put an end to their slaughter? Whether they can or not, you all are certainly in for a show tonight!"

This proclamation was followed by cheers, as well as the sound of groaning metal. The sound that announced the impending release of the Grimm beasts from their cage. Adrian unsheathed his short sword and Leon brandished his greataxe. Leon was proficient with the sword, but he'd found at the start of weapons training that he was far more suited to humanity's favored decapitation tool. As opposed to the one-handed axes, his greataxe required two hands for the devastating strikes it was capable of. And he'd grown enough in the past three and half years to have the necessary build. He was even with Adrian in height, despite the fact that Adrian was seventeen, and had more muscle mass. During their time in the Pit, Adrian often socialized with the other Dwellers because, as he put it, "It never hurt to have more allies." Leon was content to let him handle alliances while he concentrated on combat training. Every minute Adrian spent with other Dwellers was a minute he spent exercising or tearing through training dummies.

The training certainly paid off in the heat of battle. The greataxe is quite a heavy weapon to most, but Leon was capable of swinging it with the ease of a child swinging a stick. Of course, most children couldn't match the precision that Leon utilizes in his strikes. And despite his bulk, he's made sure he can employ a respectable amount of speed, poise and reactivity.

Leon learned the importance of this conditioning from gladiator matches where one combatant was massive and wields a weapon with great power, whilst the opponent was of smaller frame but moved with the speed and grace of a feline predator. The brute's attacks were so slow and telegraphed that they never landed. The smaller, more agile opponent landed many smaller strikes that degraded the brute's performance over time, much to the crowd's amusement. The massive, lumbering brute was brought to his knees and executed. Leon made sure he never followed the path of the brutes.

So it was that when he faced opponents like Chance during training fights down in the Pit, they were never able to use Leon's size against him, and he was still able to deal massive amounts of damage with single strikes. To that day, Leon had not lost a fight against another Dweller in the Pit. Still, fighting Grimm in the arena was a different level altogether. Leon always won in the end, but sometimes he took hits and walked out of the arena with a new scar to call his own. And each scar carried lessons he took to heart. Five other Dwellers hadn't been as lucky or skilled as Leon, and had lost their lives in the arena. None had gone down without a spectacular fight, however. The applause was always so thunderous that it shook Leon to the core. Every cheer lowered his faith in humanity. And his value of human life. Eventually, he agreed to fight people in deathmatches. The first few victories left him with a sinking feeling in his gut, but it wasn't long before he cut his foes down without pity, without mercy, and without regret.

Now, as the two Dwellers formed their stances, the gate began to slowly slide upward, trailing a bit of sand as it went. The instant they cleared the ground, multiple paws began clawing desperately into the sand. The rumbles grew louder and wilder with each passing second. Once the gate was halfway up, two heads poked out of the dark; ursae, just as Leon had predicted. They snarled at the two boys as their mouths foamed and salivated in hunger. And as the gate reached the third quarter mark up, nine ursae piled out of the cage. Their roars were deafening, especially that of the ursa major who shoved its way to the front of the sleuth. The major fixed its crimson gaze upon the two gladiators and broke into a dead charge toward them, with the rest following close behind.

The spectacle in front of them would be enough to make most men, save for Huntsmen, weak in the knees. The jumbled masses of the ursae formed a dark wall of fur, claws and teeth. One that was bowling its way toward them. A plethora of scenarios ran through Leon's mind in the few seconds he had, most ending in their demise. One scenario, however, presented the possibility of survival, and he knew it was the right call.

Deciding on that course of action, he turned to Adrian and said, "We have to break the wall. Spread them out and take them down one at a time. Divide and conquer."

Adrian thought for a split second, and then nodded in agreement. "Sounds good. Let's start with the ones to the left of the major. And we save the big one for last!"

The ursae were only a few dozen meters away now, and closing fast. Tightening his grip on his trusty axe, Leon roared a mighty battle cry and charged headlong toward the monsters, Adrian only a step behind.

The first thing that ran through Leon's mind was that this plan, even though it was definitely their best bet for getting out alive, was insane. There were only two of them, and a great many of them. If he made the most microscopic of missteps, he'd be absolutely shredded. He'd been told ever since he'd unlocked his aura that it was strong and plentiful, but he doubted it could withstand nine different ursae all attempting to fit him down their gullets.

Of course, it was too late now. The plan was already in action, and the only way was forward. And up. As Leon closed in on the beasts, he faced the ursa directly to the left of the major, and leapt with all his might onto its back. The plan had been to leap off, turn around and take the unlucky ursa out of the fight, but the major turned and did his work for him. The very second after Leon threw himself off the smaller monster, the major drove its massive claws into its back, penetrating possibly a foot into the body. The fact that its claws didn't find their intended mark didn't seem to faze the major, for it raked the claws of its other paw across the smaller ursa's side. As Leon hit the sand, the major finished by clamping its jaws around its victim's neck, killing it. Only then did it realize that Leon hadn't been caught in its gruesome melee and let the other body fall limp. Ironically, the beasts' ravenous hunger had worked to their advantage.

During the entire scene, Adrian had slid underneath the ursa on the right of the one that Leon had charged. As he cleared the beast's underbelly, he slashed his blade across its right hind leg, causing it to roar in pain. It began to turn to exact its revenge, but its wound caused it to stagger and fall. Adrian bounded forward, thrusting the short sword into its eye socket and skewering the brain. That left the two with seven foes to contend with.

The third on the major's right flank turned and noticed its perished brethren. More importantly, it noticed a potential meal in Adrian. The beast stood up on two legs and brought back its left arm, preparing to swipe at Adrian. But Leon was having none of it. He sprinted forward and hopped onto the back of the fallen ursa and sprung off of it, swinging his axe in a mighty arc and cleaving straight through the monster's right ribcage and out its back. Following the axe was a sizable spurt of red that dampened Leon's right arm. The beast staggered backward and let loose a howl. Adrian dashed forward and thrust his sword into its chest, piercing the heart and causing it to collapse onto its back, before rolling off of the corpse and landing on his feet in the sand. The two gladiators put a bit of distance between them and the beasts in order to assess the situation again.

By now the two could hear the cheers reverberating throughout the arena. The audience was already thrilled at the sight of a couple of youths carving their way through a challenge that seasoned men had fallen prey to. Taking advantage of the lull in the combat, Adrian gave his most confident, winning smile and waved at the spectators, who responded with renewed cheering.

Annoyed at his distraction, Leon nudged him in the side with his elbow. "Unless you're trying to blind the ursae with the flash of your teeth, this isn't helping us win."

Without breaking his façade, Adrian replied, "Hey, you want our peers to snore at the sight of ya, I'm not stopping you. But one of us has to make our image, and I gotta pick up your slack in that department."

Not fazed by his teasing remark, Leon retorted in kind. "Fair enough. I always have to pick up _your_ slack in combat anyhow, so it evens out."

Adrian snickered in response, and then turned his attention back to the ursae who were beginning to close back in on them. "Alright, alright. Guess it's serious time now, huh? You can take point. Who knows, you get a couple _more_ scars and you might actually look cool. Maybe."

Leon sighed in exasperation, and then brandished his axe.

The two sprinted toward their fourth enemy. Once they were within range, the ursa tried to swing its right arm at Adrian, but he stopped its strike by stabbing its paw with his sword and pushing forward. This created an opening for Leon to drive his axe up into the bottom of the ursa's jaw. Leon felt the beast's bony head plate crack and give way against his axe. The ursa simply dropped with its head split into halves.

The fifth and sixth ursae charged at them from the other side of the major, who was currently growling menacingly at the seventh and eighth. As far as Leon could tell, it was informing them not-to-kindly to back off of its prey. Whether or not that was indeed the case, the pair kept the major busy long enough for the Dwellers to deal with the two ursae in front of them. The sixth ursa was nearer to Adrian, so he was the target of its crunching jaws. The ursa attempted to clamp down on Adrian's leg, but he deftly spun out of the way and swung his sword as he did so. The blade sliced through the ursa's left frontal leg, severing the limb and causing its previous owner to roar in pain. It did not fall as Adrian expected it to, however, but instead the monster turned, stood on its hind legs, and clawed at him. The unforeseen strike slammed into Adrian's chest, sending him flying backward. He landed with a thud in a shower of red sand. He managed to get his footing relatively quickly, so Leon assumed his aura had blocked the worst of the impact.

Leon began moving to assist him, but the other ursa barreled into him in the brief time he'd been distracted and Leon barely managed to hold it at bay. Leon had stopped its paws with the handle of his axe, using as much strength as he could muster to push it back. But it continued to snap at him and exert more force against him, inching closer and closer to his face. Knowing he had only a few more seconds before his strength failed him, he channeled a bit of his own aura to give him the extra boost needed to shove the ursa away. The creature toppled backward, and Leon took advantage of his foe's loss of balance to jump to his feet and send a few strikes its way. His axe carved three deep gashes in its stomach, but it took five more seconds of the ursa slashing vainly at him before it finally succumbed to blood loss and perished.

Now that he had a moment, Leon turned to help Adrian. But he didn't seem to need it. As the sixth ursa hobbled awkwardly toward Adrian, driven by hunger alone, he bent down to grab a fistful of the plentiful reddish sand. Once the ursa was within range, Adrian threw the sand into the beast's face, temporarily blinding it. Unable to see Adrian, the ursa once again rose up on its hind legs and swung wildly at him and missed by a mile. Taking advantage of his foe's predicament, Adrian sprinted behind the monster, turned his sword so that he held it in a reversed grip, and then rammed it into the back of the ursa's neck. As the beast howled in agony, Adrian drove the blade down its back. The massive wound erupted in a fountain of blood. The beast collapsed forward, and Adrian grabbed the bottom of its jaw and slit its throat for good measure.

Leon glanced over at the major, who was still leering at the other two ursae. Those two were growling right back, acting surprisingly defiant in the face of starvation. The gargantuan fleabag looked ready to shred its underlings to bits at the slightest provocation. Suddenly, Leon had a flash of inspiration. He strode over to the corpse of the ursa Adrian had slain and picked up its severed arm off the ground. Winding his arm back and centering his aim, he gave the arm a mighty hurl. Adrian saw where the arm was heading and chuckled. It flipped a few times through the air and slammed right into the crazed ursa major's head. Just as Leon had predicted, this sent the beast into a frenzy. Despite their previous aggression, the two minor ursae could do nothing to defend themselves against the raging monster, and they were torn to shreds by the major's claws. The sand became littered with limbs, fur and small rivers of crimson.

And just like that, Leon and Adrian, both covered in Grimm blood, were left only to face the big one. The audience, who had been on the edge of their seats during the last few skirmishes, suddenly burst into more cheering. Leon couldn't tell if they were excited after the last two close calls or if they could sense the big fight coming up. He decided it was probably both.

"Hey, Adrian." Leon got his attention. "Remember how the smaller gladiators beat the big brutes? They dodged the slow attacks, made small hits, and backed off before the brutes could react. If we stick to that tactic, this should be a cinch." Of course, this was easier said than done.

Adrian nodded, but Leon could tell he was nervous. Truth be told, so was he. This ursa major was _big_. Even compared to other majors he'd seen. And it looked like it would tear its way through a mountain to devour them. But he had to get his nerves under control, else he make a costly, fatal mistake.

So he took a few breaths. He convinced himself that they could do this. _He_ could do this. He channeled all his hatred for the Grimm, the monsters who took his old life from him. He would use this new life to pay them back.

The ursa major roared and began barreling toward them. Its massive feet kicked up a storm of red sand in its wake.

Leon roared in response and charged out to meet it. Adrian was right next to him. And the two forces collided.

The two Dwellers were right next to each other, so the major didn't have to choose which to strike first. It simply swiped its gigantic paw in a wide arc in front of it. Leon and Adrian had been expecting a move such as that, however, and both rolled under its arm, with Leon going right and Adrian to the left. Adrian slashed at the major's right knee, while Leon swung his axe upward in an attempt to sever its left arm. Both strikes found their mark, but had a far less incapacitating effect than they'd hoped. The hit from Adrian's sword carved nearly a six-inch cut into the leg, but considering the actual size of the leg, that wasn't such a deep wound. The axe had more success in cleaving through the thick hide of the ursa major, but didn't manage to take out the whole limb.

Both Dwellers landed upright behind the major, but the major was miraculously faster than its slain underlings and turned to meet them before they could follow up on the attack. The major slashed at them in a downward motion, and Adrian hopped backward while Leon stepped forward and moved into his most stalwart stance. The then raised his axe in order to block the strike with its hilt. The major's paw impacted, and Leon was pushed back about four feet. His feet made skid marks in the red sand, but he never staggered.

Leon's block created an opening for Adrian to lunge forward and slash his blade across the left side of the major's hideous face. The monster roared, but otherwise gave no indication of pain or that the wound had any effect at all. It simply averted its attention from Leon to Adrian and slapped him with the back of its left arm. Adrian had no time to dodge after his attack and took the hit in full. He was sent flying with a yell of pain and landed in a heap five meters away before rolling another two. The burst of red sand looked ominously like blood. Luckily, that fate was avoided as what must have been the last of Adrian's aura absorbed the blow.

A part of Leon knew he should have followed his own advice and backed away. But seeing his friend slapped to the side like a buzzing pest boiled his consciousness with anger, and he decided to press on in the hopes of finishing this monster. With the major's paw still pressing down on the hilt, Leon once again channeled his aura into a mighty shove that sent the ursa's arm to the side. He actually managed to make the beast stumble a bit. Just enough to bring the greataxe in a sweeping arc in front of him. The axe sheared a great diagonal gap in the beast's chest, from its right shoulder to its left hip. The axe blade came out soaked in blood, and a lot of it splattered onto the sand.

Such a wound would have instantly killed most foes, but it was now blatantly obvious that this hunger-crazed ursa major was not most foes. Unbelievably, the ursa stayed upright. In response to the blow it had received, it opened its jaw and lunged at Leon with a horrid snarl. Leon desperately attempted to backpedal away from the salivating maw, but the beast was faster. A yell was ripped out of Leon as the jaws clamped around his waist and raised him into the air. His aura was barely holding the teeth away from his skin, but that wasn't going to last long against the force that was being pressed upon him. Leon quickly shifted his grip on the axe so that he held it near the blade. He then raised it up and brought it down into the side of the ursa's neck. In the position Leon was in, he couldn't put enough force into the strike to sink the axe in deep. But Leon was beyond fortunate at that moment, as it was enough to make the major release him from its near-fatal crunch. That release, however, meant being thrown into a nearby rock pillar with such force that the rock cracked like a bird hitting a car windshield. Leon collapsed onto the ground and scrambled back up, trying his best to ignore the pain of the recent debacle. His fortune seemed run out at that moment, though, because the ursa was on him in an instant with a sideswipe that hit with the force of a battering ram. Leon was thrown aside once again, but this time he managed to land on his feet after a few quick rolls.

Leon's aura, strong and plentiful as it was, had nearly been depleted. He doubted he had enough to save himself from another hit like the ones he'd taken. But there was one more way he could use the last of it.

Adrian had struggled back to his feet by this point, and Leon made eye contact with him. He then raised his left hand and clenched it into a fist. Adrian understood what he was going to do and nodded. Leon needed a few seconds to gather the final dregs of his aura, and Adrian was going to buy them.

So he pulled back his arm, angled his blade, and launched it forward in multiple spins through the dusty air. The throw was masterful, and sunk to the hilt into the major's thigh. It must have damaged the nerves as well, for the leg went limp and the beast stumbled. Once again, it gave a roar of pain, but still kept its focus on Leon, who was still standing defiantly in the open with his left fist clenched. The time the ursa had lost hobbling toward him, however, had given Leon enough time.

So much aura had been centered around his left fist that a little bit discharged into the air. And as the ursa major began to close the distance between them, Leon dashed forward, drew back his arm and swung his fist in an uppercut strike that slammed into the beast's jaw.

What followed was an explosion of aura that carried enough force to launch the beast into the air and send it into a couple of backflips. After a few seconds, it landed with a _THUD_ in the red sand and laid there limply.

The crowd, which had been eerily silent with anticipation, erupted once again into cheers.

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Leon walked over to the monster to inspect his handiwork. Based on its heaving chest and low moans, the ursa was obviously still alive. When Leon caught sight of its head, he saw that his strike had broken its jaw. It hung open in a rather amusing way. It seemed as if the pain had finally settled in, or that the blow had given it a concussion. Perhaps it was both. Either way, the ursa major didn't seem intent on attacking him. It simply gazed off into the distance, unaware of his presence.

Leon didn't intend to wait for it to recover. So he gripped his axe tightly with both hands and brought it back behind his head. And he heaved it downward in an executioner's chop.

It hit the ursa's neck with a wet but satisfying noise. The axe blade went right through and impacted with the ground beneath. The head dropped away from the body while both of the severed ends gushed crimson blood.

At last, the beast was dead. The match was over. And the cheers were deafening.

He turned to see Adrian a short distance away, grinning from ear to ear. Leon grinned right back at him.

His grin disappeared when he looked behind Adrian at the rock pillar ten feet away. At one last ursa, covered in bloody wounds. The one they'd thought had been slain first by the major. Charging right at Adrian.

Adrian was completely unaware, and his sword was still planted in the ursa major's leg. And his aura couldn't protect him anymore.

So Leon did the one thing he could think of in that instant. He broke into a dead run toward Adrian, determined to get to him before the beast.

Leon did reach Adrian first, but the beast was only seconds away. So Leon shoved Adrian to the right, out of harm's way. But now Leon was in the path of the charging monster. He tried to swing his axe at it, but he was out of time.

The ursa brought up its clawed paw and slashed, carving three gashes in the lower left of Leon's jaw. His head whipped back and he collapsed on his back.

Leon's vision went red from the subsequent pain that shot through him. He tried to drag himself away from the beast, but the pain seemed to have immobilized him. So he simply lay there, his breathing rapid.

_Was this really it?_ Leon thought. _After everything I've struggled through, this is what gets me?_

Through his blurred sight, he could see the ursa open his jaw to finish him off. He braced himself for the end, satisfied in the knowledge that at least Adrian would make it out of here.

But the blow never came. Instead, the ursa's head shot to the side and it roared fiercely. Whatever had hit it seemed to have caught its attention, as it turned and walked away from him.

Turning his head, he saw Adrian picking up what he assumed were stones and hurling them at the ursa. The fool hadn't gone for his sword, and now the ursa was between him and his weapon. It wouldn't be long before the beast got him, too.

But as before, Leon wasn't going to be having any of that. With great effort, he managed to push the pain back and more or less clear his vision. He gave a mighty grunt and rolled onto his stomach. Bracing himself, he then pushed himself onto his feet, grabbing his axe as he did so.

Steeling himself one last time, he charged at the ursa, which was facing away from him and snarling at Adrian. It wasn't until Leon was about five feet away that the ursa noticed the noise behind him and turned its head to discover its source. As soon as it did, Leon roared and swung his axe upward, lopping the beast's head clean off its shoulders. The body stood up for a second longer, and then collapsed as its head hit the ground and rolled away.

Both of the combatants were panting heavily now. Despite his fatigue, the adrenaline was still running through Leon's veins. So he stepped over to the body of the last ursa and placed his right foot upon its beheaded corpse. Then he thrust his gore-soaked axe into the air and gave one final roar of victory that echoed throughout the massive cavern. Adrian followed suit, raising his sword high above his head and crying out in triumph.

Their shouts were drowned out by the celebration of the crowd. They went absolutely wild over their victory. The screams and cheers lasted for about a minute straight before they began to simmer down.

_What a sight we must be,_ Leon thought. _A couple of strapping young killers, drenched in the blood of our foes._

The announcer, noticeably silent throughout the match, took the opportunity to chime in. "And there you have it, valued audience! They have done it! Just when it seemed the rampage of the ursae would never be halted, these two enter the arena and cut them all down to size! The foes that scores of challengers have met their end against couldn't hope to stand against the wrath of Adrian Parnell and Leon Ferox!" Triumphant music then poured out of the speakers, a heroic tune that helped lift the spirits of the exhausted warriors.

At this the celebration resumed, resounding off the stone walls. This was the one time he could appreciate their cheers, when it was clear the audience was applauding their victory, and by extension their survival. So Leon allowed the sound to rumble through his bones, allowed himself to feel proud of what they accomplished that day.

Because Leon did not fight for the fame. He fought for the thrill of the fight.

And for those who were taken from him four years ago. He knew he could never get them back, but he could damn well fight until he joined them.

* * *

As per usual, the victorious gladiators had their wounds examined and treated by the good Doctor Owens. Adrian had actually had his left shoulder dislocated, and it was popped—painfully—back into place. Other than that and a large collection of bruises, Adrian was good to go.

Leon was a different matter entirely. Foremost among the doctor's concerns were the three rather deep gashes on his jaw. Owens immediately had them sterilized with a stinging solution. Once the blood and sand were cleaned out, the doctor put his aura to work attempting to mend the wounds. After five or so minutes of concentration, Owens managed to heal them enough so that the bleeding ceased, but informed Leon that the gashes would leave scars.

Upon hearing this bit of news, Leon looked over at Adrian and smirked. "You said I might look cooler with some more scars. So what do ya think?"

Adrian chuckled and responded, "Yeah, yeah…now I'd rank you slightly more appealing than a boarbatusk. Grats." He accentuated his remark with a very sarcastic slow clap.

Dr. Owens interjected, cutting off their banter. "Well, boys. Your aura should recharge after a good rest. Now, obviously you can't stay out of combat given the line of work around here. But might I suggest a bit more dodging and less mad cleaving next time?"

Remembering that conversation with Adrian in the arena, Leon smiled a bit. "That's usually the initial plan, doc. But it just never seems to work out in the heat of the moment. Not our style, I suppose."

At this the doctor raised an eyebrow. "Huh. To each their own, I suppose. Just gives me more to do, anyhow."

Soon the final checkup was complete and the two departed the doctor's office. Luckily, they didn't have to trek all the way back to the pit anymore. A little over a year ago the surviving Dwellers had been deemed successful enough to earn their own rooms. Nothing luxurious, but a far cry from the rough cots in the dank, oppressive Pit. Additionally, there were a limited number of rooms to spare, so each room was given to multiple people based on the unofficial teams and companionships they formed. Leon and Adrian ended up bunking with a veteran gladiator of considerable skill and renown.

Silas O'Conner was of a very boisterous nature, even more so than the other two. He spoke with an often jovial brogue accent which was rather pleasing to the ear. Contrarily, he preferred to move around and try to stay out of sight as much as possible while in combat. If his enemies were unlucky enough to fall within his sight, he'd bring out Nightfall, his sleek black greatbow, and drop them with astonishing accuracy. Of course, sometimes foes would manage to get up close and personal, and for those occasions Silas shifted his weapon's form. The two limbs doubled as the blades of twin scimitars, where the grip split into the handles and the string split at the nocking groove, magnetically locking with the back edge of the blades. And when the scimitars came out, he got loud again.

The door of their room flew open, and Silas grew a wide, welcoming grin. If Leon hadn't known him, he might have been intimidated. Silas cut an imposing figure in his black leather armor, which he wore over a dark green tunic. His camouflaged cloak was resting on a coat hanger in the corner. "Welcome, welcome lads! Wonderful match, as always with the two of ye! It does me soul proud to think I may have helped ye git where ye are now." He wasn't lying. After the Dwellers graduated from the Pit, any additional training was handled at the whim of other resident fighters. Not every one of them was willing, but Silas and the two Dwellers had hit it off rather well and they swiftly became brothers in arms.

At this time, Leon and Adrian were far too exhausted to respond properly to his cheery greeting. Adrian immediately sat down on his bed with his elbows on his knees. Leon was much less composed and collapsed face-first into his pillow. After a few seconds of heavy sighing, Leon finally replied to Silas in a muffled voice. "Thanks, Silas. Gah, my face hurts like burning bloody Hell…" He barely finished the sentence before he was out. Adrian followed suit about five minutes later, leaving Silas grinning at the young pair of warriors.

"Git some sleep, boys. Ye earned it."

* * *

Something jarred Leon out of his deep slumber.

It wasn't any actual thing that awoke him, nothing tangible. But one does not survive for many years in an environment of perpetual danger, such as a gladiator arena, without developing a very potent sixth sense.

Glancing at the slightly cracked analog clock hanging on the wall, he saw that he'd been asleep for about ten and a half hours. His aura had worked wonders during that time, healing the majority of his bruises and leaving him feeling quite rejuvenated. What it didn't fix, however, was the itch in the back of his mind.

Adrian and Silas were no longer in the room, so Leon was going to have to find them. If Leon's sense was right, as it often was, then those two would most likely have felt something as well. Luckily, there weren't that many places to go in the Burrow, so he could simply ask whoever was around and would hopefully be pointed in the right direction. Leon quickly slipped on his meager combat gear, grabbed his trusty axe, sheathed it across his back and stepped out into the hallway.

He only made it six steps when a loud _thump_ reached his ears, coincided by the stone floors shaking rather violently. Motes of red dust fell from the ceiling. A shrieking alarm trailed by a few seconds. Then the voice of the arena announcer made a startling declaration, his normally solid voice now desperately trying to hide his fear.

"Calling all fighters! The Burrow is under siege! All fighters to the primary entrance! These foes must be driven back! For the glory of the Bloody Burrow!"


	4. Invaders

**RWBY: Ascendant**** Spark**

Chapter 4 – Invaders

_Well…damn._

That was the only thought that ran through Leon's mind for a good few seconds after the news broke.

Then the seconds passed and he sprang into action. Unsheathing his axe, still stained with Grimm blood, he sprinted down the corridor toward the hallway that would lead to the entrance. The door of the doctor's office swung open as he passed, and Owens poked out with an astonished look on his face. He saw Leon and nodded as he passed.

Truth be told, Leon was astonished as well. Quite a while ago, Leon and the other Dwellers reached the point where they had been deemed worthy of information about the Burrow. This included its surroundings and its location in respect to the nearest kingdom, Vale. As soon as he'd learned this, he understood how the Burrow had never been discovered despite its popularity. The entire complex was carved inside a red mountain, which itself hid in plain sight among other identical red mountains which were all many miles away from the rest of civilization. Add to all of this the rather dense forest surrounding the mountains and you have the Bloody Burrow, a natural bastion.

Considering all of this, the fact that an unknown force was besieging the Burrow was nigh unbelievable. The Burrow's higher-ups had been extremely confident that they hadn't been leaked to either the Vale police or the Huntsmen. The vast majority of the Burrow's various employees rarely even left the compound, so the chances of them making enemies with other crime syndicates were slim. Perhaps this wasn't an aggravated attack, but simply a hostile land grab…

Then Leon had another thought: it didn't matter. He was overanalyzing the situation. The foe, their reasons, even their strength, none of it made a difference. They were enemies, and they made the mistake of assaulting the Burrow. And Leon had no intention of losing another home.

The staccato report of gunfire resounded from nearby, dragging Leon out his thoughts. The entryway was close now, and Leon began to steel himself for the coming battle. Grip tightened, mind cleared, limbs loose. The final door between Leon and the battle was now about five feet away.

Before he made it to three, it was blown off its hinges. The force of the blast sent it spinning through the air, straight at Leon. After a split second of surprise, Leon brought up his left arm and deflected the iron door to the side as if it was no more dangerous than a stray discus. He couldn't concentrate on the rogue door, though, because he was too focused on what stumbled through the open doorway.

The man was dressed in the garb of a Burrow guard, but it was hard to tell through the splotches of blood that soaked most of his body, some of which poured over the charred remains of his right arm and torso. His eyes had that vacant look, the look that said he was dead but didn't quite know it yet. The look his mother had in the seconds before that beast tore out her throat.

_No!_ he thought angrily. _I won't be thinkin' about that night. About that life. It's gone! Gone forever! My life is right here!_

Finally, the man's body gave in and he collapsed in a heap. Through the soot-stained door frame, Leon could see figures crouched behind the sparse cover available in the lobby. He recognized Adrian and Silas behind the reception desk, as well as the body of the receptionist lying still off to the side. She'd died with bullet holes in her chest and a surprised look on her once-pretty face. Silas had Nightfall in greatbow form and was launching arrows the size of small spears toward the entrance, dropping foe after foe. Adrian was giving him cover fire with a standard handgun he'd picked up from somewhere…most likely off one of the many corpses littering the ground.

Leon dashed to the door frame and swiftly peeked around the corner. Aside from Adrian and Silas, Leon counted about nine or ten other Burrow fighters with various weapons holding off the invaders. The air was becoming clouded with smoke and dust, especially around the entrance where the invaders were attacking in droves. It was so thick that Leon couldn't even discern any details on them. Just silhouettes and muzzle flashes.

Leon had to get in the fight, but the constant barrage of enemy fire effectively suppressed any move on his part. Glancing back at the body of the first casualty, he noticed a blackened submachine gun. Swiftly grabbing it off the corpse, Leon gave it a quick look over. One magazine, mostly full. The other mags seemed to have been strapped to the man's torso and melted in the explosion that killed him.

Leon brandished the small machine gun, took a deep breath, then stuck his arm around the corner and fired a short, wide burst. The barrage faltered ever so slightly, and Leon took that as his opportunity. Leon dashed toward the desk, emptying the clip in a hail of bullets. _Rattatattatat! Rattatattatat!_

The storm of bullets from the invaders hadn't died down completely, and Leon felt the jarring force of a few rounds impacting him. Luckily, he had plenty of aura to absorb the blows, but nonetheless he still rushed behind the splintered reception counter. Upon reaching it, he crouched low next to Adrian, who smirked at the sudden entrance of his bulky, blue-haired friend. "Better late than never, eh? Did ya have a nice nap?"

Grim as the situation was, Leon couldn't help but grin back at him. "Sorry I'm a bit tardy to the party. But I knew I had to be here to roll out the welcome mat for our guests."

Leon then turned to the boisterous archer, who was sending great shafts of death downrange at a respectably rapid rate. "What's the situation look like, Silas?"

Silas responded with a wide smile. "Well, I cannae be sure, but I believe we're under attack here, laddie!" He punctuated his statement by sending out another great arrow.

Leon's palm met his face. He should have realized what kind of opening he'd have created with that question. "You know what? I can deal with angry people tryin' to kill us, but not a simple conversation with you, Silas. You guys just do your thing, and I…" Leon brandished his axe, "…will do mine."

Silas' grin never faded. "I had a feelin' ye were gonna say somethin' like that. But first, allow me to hand out me special party favor."

Silas' "special party favor" turned out to be a few arrows with high-explosive tips. Three at once, in fact. Silas nocked them all, the middle arrow facing center and the other two angled outward. "Ye ready fer a good time, lads?"

Leon's spirits lifted at the site of those arrows. "You know me so well, Silas!"

Adrian piped in at this. "Count me in, too! This is gonna be fun!" He reloaded his pistol and brandished his sword.

"Alrighty then, boys! When ye hear the signal, go hog wild." Silas didn't need to elaborate. They knew the signal.

A quick breath, then Silas popped out of cover and slid over the desk. He landed in an expert crouch, bullets pinging all around him, as the invaders all shifted their aim at the man who so boldly leapt into their sight. Before they could center their aim, however, Silas gave the signal. He released his payload.

All three high-explosive great arrows hit the vicinity of the entrance at once, resulting in a massive explosion that rocked the foundations of the room. The thunderous report that followed was nearly deafening, and the ever-present red dust particles were sent into a flurry through the air. The barrage of fire from the invaders came crashing to a halt, and many lifeless bodies were thrown every which way from the force of the blasts. Leon and Adrian took the opportunity and vaulted over the tattered desk and dashed into the cloud.

Quickly glancing at the singed, broken bodies that littered the floor, Leon finally got a good look at these attackers. And what he saw gave him great concern. Black shirts and trousers, simple white vests, and masks reminiscent of animals covered by black hoods. One had died on his stomach, and the blood red emblem on his back confirmed his suspicion. They were dealing with the White Fang.

Leon grew a bit more solemn at this revelation, and turning to Adrian revealed that he felt the same. The White Fang was most assuredly not an organization one would want to quarrel with. They were powerful, fanatic, and definitely dangerous.

Leon could hear movement ahead, on the other side of the entrance. Some of the faunus warriors had survived. Probably many, in fact. Leon braced himself for a fight as he ran into the fray, his bulk carving a path through the dusty air toward the large entrance tunnel.

A few more steps and he cleared the dust, immediately plowing into one unfortunate White Fang soldier. Leon didn't even bother using his axe, instead opting to bring his arm up in a massive backhanded swing. His strike slammed into the faunus' torso like a hammer, breaking ribs and sending him soaring through the air and into one of his comrades. The downed warrior didn't even have time to scream before he blacked out from the shock of the blow.

It took Leon only a second to analyze the situation. Five other White Fang soldiers were getting their heads on straight, scrambling for their weapons. Some were backing away from Leon, terrified of this giant, blue-haired beast that had pummeled into their ranks. A few were drawing blades and beginning to step toward him. Their bravery, or simple fanaticism, was commendable, but also a fatal mistake. Adrian was still a few steps behind, catching up. Leon smiled to himself. Perhaps he could take them all out before Adrian got there.

To that end, Leon surged forward and swung his axe around in a mighty forward sweep. The instrument of death was a blur, moving faster than the first two attackers could react. Before they even knew it, the axe had cleaved right through both of their chests without stopping, their momentum carrying them a few more feet before they dropped. The third attacker skidded to a stop, her mouth agape. Swiftly regaining her composure, she attempted to twirl around to his left and swing her slim sword simultaneously. Leon countered, dropping low and swinging his right leg clockwise to swipe her feet out from under her. Her blade passed inches above his head and she toppled to the ground. Leon was back up in an instant, his axe reared back. She managed to look up in terror at him before he brought it down, ending the faunus soldier.

As he brought his axe back up, he noticed a large, high-caliber magnum handgun in her holster. He swiped it up in his left hand and took aim at the backs of the two other White Fang peons, who were booking it away from Leon as fast as their legs would carry them. He took a second to aim, and fired. The recoil was definitely high for a handgun, a result of its large, powerful round. The round tore through the first faunus, sending him flying forward and onto the floor. The last remaining foe in the tunnel took the time to gaze, horrified, at his fallen brethren; another mistake. Leon adjusted his aim and fired once more. The shot hit home, this time right in and out the sides of the faunus' head, which snapped to the side. He collapsed without another sound.

Leon then saw movement out of the corner of his eye and remembered the faunus who had been toppled by Leon's initial victim. Only now had he regained his footing. The White Fang soldier took one good look at his comrades and immediately lowered his blade while raising his other hand in surrender. Leon considered sparing him, but then he glanced at the faunus' sword. It was covered in blood. Blood that could only have been spilled from a Burrow fighter.

And without another thought, Leon slashed. The faunus' head fell and bounced off the wall, eventually rolling to a stop a few feet away.

Only then did Adrian catch up, sword poised and ready. Taking in his surroundings, he lowered his weapon and groaned.

"Really? Haven't you ever heard that sharing is caring? Could've saved a few for me…" he complained.

Leon smirked at him and shook his head slightly. Though Leon was more of the brawn between the two, Adrian had always been a bit more bloodthirsty toward humans and faunus. He'd never opted to share why, but Leon assumed it had something to do with his life before the Burrow.

Just then, Leon heard some commotion further down the tunnel. Shouts and the unmistakable thuds of many boots running across the red stone. Leon glanced over at Adrian. "Have _you_ ever heard of being careful what you wish for? This fight is far from finished."

"Indeed, laddie. We got plenty o' work cut out for us." This was Silas, just making his way, still grinning, through the cloud he'd caused. "Luckily, I brought a few o' me friends to help speed things along."

This statement was followed by even more heavy footfalls, but this time coming from inside the Burrow. Then the dusty red cloud was completely dispersed by the entrance of their reinforcements. All in all, a bit more than three dozen fighters arrived, a congregation of seasoned warriors. Male and female, human and faunus, large and small. All armed to the teeth and ready to kick some ass.

Then he noticed the largest figure in the group, and wondered how he could have missed him before. It was Hartman himself, clad in his signature armor and brandishing the weapon that struck fear into every Dweller and gladiator alike. The spiked gauntlets were the color of dark blood, and were infused with fire dust so that they could combust at Hartman's will. Add to that their ability to shoot the spikes of the knuckles out up to five feet, and you've got a primitive-looking set of weapons that have wreaked absolute havoc in battle. He called them Devil's Handshake…and Leon had a feeling that the name was actually an understatement.

Leon had memories of them from training that still made him shiver. Hartman had been a…harsh taskmaster. He'd often looked for any excuse to bust out Devil's Handshake to dole out punishment on a Dweller, and often it took his victims many days to recover. One never did. The poor boy had perished of third degree burns on many parts of his body, as well as both internal and external bleeding. After that incident, Hartman learned to scale it back a little. But not that much.

Leon then thought about the scars on the right side of his stomach. He'd been given them after his first staged battle against Grimm during training. The very first battle for the Dwellers, in fact. Hartman had managed to capture a creep, those armless reptilian Grimm. He'd told the Dwellers that someone was going to fight it, one way or another. Leon volunteered. He'd thought he could kill the little monster easily after half of a year of training…but he'd been wrong. Leon had landed a few good hits, but at one chaotic point something tore the axe out of Leon's hand, disarming him. He'd later found out that Chance, the little sod, had grabbed it and thrown it away when Leon was concentrating on his foe. Chance had thought he could get away with it, but Hartman didn't miss a beat. Before the creep could end Leon with its crunching jaws, Hartman stepped in and slew the beast with a single strike. He then proceeded to beat Chance fairly badly for interfering in his match. Apparently there'd been enough beating to go around, for next it was Leon's turn for dropping his guard and allowing it to happen. Both boys had ended up in Owens' office for many days after that incident.

Like the other Dwellers, Leon still harbored some resentment for the giant meat slab of a man. Unlike the others, however, Leon also had a certain appreciation for him. Without Hartman, Leon would never have grown as he had, into the warrior he was today. Hell, he wouldn't even be alive if it hadn't been for Hartman.

As for the other fighters that had shown up, he had fought beside most of them in the arena. As a general rule, the less qualified warriors tended to die quickly. Those who remained were all skill.

Leon looked upon them all, and they looked back at him. Many nodded at him, and some even smiled. Despite their age, Leon and the other Dwellers had earned the respect of the older gladiators. Being able to both walk in and out of the arena was no small feat. Of course, those had been closed, smaller-scale battles. Still deadly, but they'd never had the fate of the entire Burrow riding on their outcome. This battle was different, though. To Leon, this was not a battle for fame, for thrills or even for survival. He would be fighting for his home. And for those who had suffered alongside him for years, struggling against fate to build lives for themselves. For his comrades. Leon had known so much loss in his life, and he hell-bent on protecting what he had now.

So it was that when the second wave of White Fang warriors began to round the nearest curve, Leon did not despair. Instead, he smiled. Then he roared his mighty battle cry, once again brandished his axe, and charged. The rest of the Burrow fighters charged right behind and beside him, the many footsteps resounding like thunder through the red tunnel. And the enemies halted their advance, startled at the spectacle before them, at the determination, the anger, the excitement in the eyes of the gladiators.

Just when the two groups were about to clash, one figure shot forward like a bloody cannonball. Hartman. On fire.

His armor was forged with fire Dust, and was able to combust in certain areas at Hartman's command. The subsequent blaze, dubbed Demon Flare, was easily capable of frying most enemies that came within smacking distance. This created both a tactical advantage (provided allies kept themselves at a minimum safe distance) and one hell of a terrifying spectacle.

Funnily enough, Hartman didn't seem to get much use out of his intimidation factor, as he immediately began to plow through the White Fang soldiers. Forward punch. Spike shot. Curb stomp. Incineration. He didn't even give them the chance to be frightened. Charred, broken bodies couldn't cry out.

Hartman charged through, nothing able to even halt his advance. He carved an ember-ridden path many meters long, scorching the stone as he passed. Those left still breathing in his wake were understandably demoralized. One faunus, however, stepped up and tried to rally his comrades.

"Snap out of it, soldiers! We still have a job to do, and all that's standing in our way are a few raggedy little—"

His words were abruptly cut off by a flash of steel, followed by his head suddenly flying upward and spinning through the dusty air.

Time seemed to slow for a second as the faunus soldiers witnessed another rather large man, this one wielding a greataxe with a blade bigger than many firearms. Dripping the blood of their lieutenant. And the blue-haired man smiled, his face adorned with scars.

Then it was his turn.

The head began to fall back down to the ground, and time sped back up again. Leon swiftly spun and swung his axe again, this time striking the still-airborne head with the flat of the blade like a baseball. The head shot forward and slammed into one unfortunate faunus before ricocheting into a few others clustered around him. Stunned, the soldiers had no way to counter or dodge the whirlwind that Leon followed up with. He dashed forward and in three slashes dropped three enemies. Before they even hit the stone, Leon leapt and kicked off the tunnel wall, twirling through the air. As he rolled, his axe cleaved through the White Fang faster than they could blink. The already red stone of the Burrow was painted even redder in many sprays of faunus blood.

Leon landed in a crouch, sliding a few feet before stopping. One second later, a total of eight corpses dropped.

The other soldiers, numbering around forty now, set their minds right again after Hartman's firestorm. The nearest ten raised their various firearms and pointed them all at Leon. This proved to be a grave mistake as the rest of the gladiators opened up on the distracted foes. The first projectile was a pitch-black great arrow that pierced one faunus with such force that it punched through and downed a second soldier. Then the bullets hit, and the White Fang's front line was absolutely shredded. A total of eleven foes collapsed in pieces before the volley halted.

A mighty roar then sprung forth from each of the Burrow fighters, and they all dashed toward the White Fang with melee weapons drawn and hungry for blood. The enemy survivors, however, were done being frightened and dashed out to meet them. Leon leapt into the head of the wave, always eager to keep fighting. Neither side backed down, both fully prepared to completely destroy the other or die trying. The two waves then collided in full force.

Adrian and Silas took up positions on both of Leon's sides. Silas had Nightfall split into the scimitars Dawn and Dusk, and he practically glided through the enemy lines. The ease and speed with which he wielded the scimitars still amazed Leon. Adrian had picked up an SMG at some point, and fired it from his right hand while his left twirled his ever-pointy sword in graceful arcs. Both were holding their own admirably, leaving Leon to deal with the group of four in front of him.

Unlike the last batch of faunus he'd fought, these soldiers didn't rush him head on. No, they'd learned well enough to try and keep their distance and wait for an opportunity to arise. But Leon didn't intend to give it to them, so when he attacked he decreased the power in favor of controllability. These four were fleet of foot, however, and neither Leon nor the White Fang could touch the other with these tactics.

So Leon decided to change things up a bit. He thrust outward in a short sweep, causing the left-most three to hop back. This left only the soldier to his right nearby, and Leon swung powerfully at her in an upward slash. The faunus fighter ducked easily under it and saw the opportunity she'd been waiting for, as Leon had left himself wide open. She dashed forward, preparing to swing her mace sideways.

What she didn't know was that Leon had purposefully exaggerated his attack to draw her in without backup. As she rushed in, Leon suddenly snapped his leg forward, impacting her chest like a truck. Even through his heavy boot, he could feel her ribs snap before she soared backward and slammed into the wall. She didn't get back up.

"NO!" A cry of anguish escaped the throat of one of the other three men. Leon couldn't see his eyes through his mask, but his mouth was agape in horror as he stared at the woman's limp form.

_Aww. What a crying shame._ Leon thought with a sneer. If he'd loved her, if he'd wanted a life with her, then they shouldn't have come here.

Just then, the faunus turned his gaze toward Leon. "You…._YOU_…" He didn't finish his sentence, but instead gave an agonized scream and did exactly what had proven fatal to many other White Fang soldiers that day: he blindly rushed the blue-haired beast with a whopping big axe.

This faunus, however, had some skill under his belt. His moves were quite swift and difficult to defend against. A downward slash here, a rapid thrust there, and rolling away when Leon found the time to strike back. Before he knew it, the grief-stricken faunus landed a hit on Leon's left side. His aura blocked the blow easily, but the fighter kept up the pressure. Leon was actually beginning to fall back…and that wouldn't do at all. So Leon utilized his size and rammed his shoulder into the faunus, shoving him back a few feet and giving Leon a bit of breathing room. The soldier still didn't want to let up, so he tried something he thought his foe would never expect. He leapt high into the air, intending to cleave Leon's skull vertically. He definitely got some good air, but Leon had put his guard up, and the encounter had his adrenaline pumping. He reacted in a split second, thrusting upward and skewering the faunus through the stomach on the tip of the axe like a shish kebab. Leon held him in the air for a few seconds longer before pounding him into the ground, pulling the blade out and stabbing him once more in the chest.

Leon quickly looked for the other two and saw them near the woman's body. Presumably, they had run to check on her while he'd been busy. That explained why Leon hadn't suddenly been flanked. They hadn't carried her away, so she must have bit the bucket.

So she was with her sweetheart now. These two were next.

And now that there were only two to contend with, Leon was done being on the defensive. He charged forward at a breakneck speed, and his foes sprinted out to meet him. When they were about ten feet away, they split up and dashed to each side in an attempt to sandwich him. But they almost seemed to move in slow motion to Leon, and he dropped low and slid on the red stone before their blades could give him an unwanted haircut. He ended up behind both of them, and he certainly made good on the opening. He faced the faunus on the right and swung low, severing his legs and dropping him. He had only a moment to scream before Leon brought his boot down on his face, easily ending his pain. The last of the four stabbed forward, but Leon sidestepped it and grabbed hold of his wrist. His iron grip began to crunch the bones, and the blade quickly fell from his grasp as he, too, began to wail in pain. Leon then finished it with a swift head-butt to the faunus' forehead. One would imagine that the metal mask would provide ample protection against an unguarded head smash, but Leon felt nothing as the soldier crumpled, unconscious.

Leon finally released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Now that his little skirmish was over, he could take stock of how the rest of the battle was progressing. And he was pleased with what he saw. Though they were outnumbered, the gladiators had made short work of the White Fang. The remaining invaders, perhaps about nine of them, were desperately trying to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. Their primary obstacle, however, was the blood-armored demon standing stalwart between them and the only exit. Hartman wasn't currently making any moves, but Leon was sure he would incinerate the survivors if they were foolish enough to go anywhere near him.

Leon then scanned the corpses covering the floor, but soon realized he would be hard-pressed to find any actual floor. The bodies were so plentiful that they blanketed almost the entire ground. He knew what he was looking for, however. He counted seven Burrow fighters among the dead. Leon bowed his head in respect. He'd known each of them by name, and to see them lying so still and so red was…well, saddening. Many others were wounded, but no small injury would ever incapacitate a gladiator. Their will to fight was insurmountable…and that was what had won this fight. Not numbers or even skill, but the desire to protect their home at any cost. Not to say the gladiators weren't extremely skilled. Far more so than the cannon fodder the White Fang had thrown their way. It had almost been too easy…

Once again, Leon was snapped out of his thoughts by a sudden commotion. The nine survivors all sprinted at once toward the exit, and to Hartman. He leapt into action, immediately goring one with a burning spike shot and twisting around to backhand a second. Leon drew the magnum handgun he'd appropriated and sighted a few of the outermost faunus. Three shots rang out through the tunnel, and two enemies were added to the piles. Adrian took aim and sent a burst into the third. Silas quickly transformed Dawn and Dusk back into Nightfall, nocked a great arrow and let it fly. His target was pinned to the stone wall by the great shaft sticking through his chest and certainly wouldn't be going anywhere.

Three of them had almost made it through the suicidal charge and out of the tunnel. Hartman ignited Demon Flare once more and dashed out to stop them. He got close enough to the hind-most faunus and Devil's Handshake shot forward, pretty well obliterating his victim. The second-to-last got his back cooked pretty well by Demon Flare. It wasn't enough to stop him, though, and he escaped with the other.

Of course, their "escape" would be a very short reprieve. The Burrow wasn't so forgiving as to let them go after all the damage they caused.

Adrian walked over to him now. He was covered in blood, much as Leon had to be after all the close quarters combat. "Whoo! What a day! We really kicked 'em on their furry asses, didn't we? Ought to think twice about pickin' a fight with us again! "

Leon couldn't help but grin. "Yeah…the city boys weren't ready for the jungle. And now…" Leon cracked his knuckles together. "…I'm thinkin' that we should pay them a visit over in Vale."

Adrian smiled in return. "Oh, I'm down for that. They signed their own death warrants, and we sure won't let it slide."

"Listen up, dogs! This is how it's gonna go down!"

This was Hartman, who strode up to the gladiators. All the conversations stopped cold at his exclamation and all eyes locked on the hellish figure.

He continued. "The White Fang somehow got it into their animal skulls that we'd be no harder to destroy than wet tissue paper. Now we've shown them the error of their ways in this tunnel, but they won't take this defeat lightly. They'll be coming back, and when they do they'll hit us harder and with much bigger sticks."

He paused, taking a moment to make eye contact with some of the gladiators. He stopped on Leon. "But there is no way in Hell we're gonna let that happen. There is no way we'll just sit here in this mountain and wait to be exterminated like a bunch of sad little cockroaches!" A few gladiators cheered at this. "No…we know where they are. And we _can_ hurt them. A helluva lot more than they hurt us here!"

Even more people hollered in excitement, and Leon was one of them. His adrenaline rushes were legendary in the Burrow for lasting longer than many had thought possible, and he was still very much eager to fight.

It was time to head out now. "Okay then, gladiators! Let's move out! It's time to make them realize that they are nothing but kids playing in a den of angry ursae!"

Now every gladiator cheered just as loud as the spectators of the arena. And with more gusto. They all rushed to the exit, ecstatic at the upcoming storm they were about to unleash upon the foolish faunus.

As Leon and Adrian passed, Hartman pulled the two aside. "You know our expectations. And I know you're both up to the challenge. Just make sure you follow orders. You keep your hides intact, and you'll be amply rewarded. Count on it."

The two nodded and simultaneously responded, "Understood, Pitmaster!"

Then they fell back into the crowd. The two ended up near the back, so they picked up their pace to try and regain lost ground.

Leon, like the other Dwellers, was especially anxious about this new mission. They hadn't been outside the Burrow or its surrounding forest since…well, since they'd been "recruited". They certainly hadn't been to Vale in that time. An all-out assault on the White Fang would make for quite a homecoming party.

Leon's heart beat rapidly in his chest as he began to close the gap between him and the outside. Ten feet…six feet…two feet…

The incandescent sun shone its glorious rays on Leon and the other gladiators, reflecting off the many metal components of their gear. They'd emerged in a clearing, covered mostly in grass and dotted with many large red boulders. About one hundred and fifty yards in any direction was the forest, dense and green as it ever was. Leon didn't have time to appreciate the scenery again, for he heard Hartman give the order to head to the garage and pile into the armored trucks.

And that's when all Hell _really_ broke loose.


	5. Out of the Frying Pan

**RWBY: Ascendant**** Spark**

Chapter 5 – Out of the Frying Pan

Neither Leon, dead-eye Silas nor any other gladiator saw the attack coming. What they did see was the sparkling red projectile soar through the sky toward the close-knit group of twenty-eight gladiators, impact the ground just behind the front of the mob and detonate in a blinding flash of light and a searing wave of heat.

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks, attempting to make sense of what was happening. Many Burrow fighters near the front were screaming, having sustained painful-looking injuries from the blast. Others were scanning the forest edge, where they thought they'd seen the projectile come from.

Hartman tried to instill some order among the chaos. "Calm yourselves, for the love of God! You're better than this! Now somebody tell me JUST WHAT IN THE HELL IS HAPPEN—"

His words were drowned out by the deafening report of an uncountable amount of firearms. Leon saw the Dust rounds pouring out from the forest edge in a horrifying storm that tore into the gladiators. Skin was shredded, muscles mulched, limbs shorn off and bodies broken in the blink of an eye.

In another intense spike of adrenaline, Leon dashed for the nearest boulder. He noticed Adrian standing in a stupor out in the open, which was very unlike him. Leon grabbed his shoulder and pulled him into cover. Safe for the moment, Leon took a moment to catch his breath as his mind raced.

How could this have happened? Everything had been going oh so smoothly, and in the space of a few seconds the whole situation had broken down! Looking over at the rest of the group, Leon saw that the other gladiators had either taken cover…or else would never be fighting again. He was sickened to see nine of his comrades taken down, lying torn and bloody in the grass. Only ten seconds into this ambush and already more gladiators had been slain than in the entire tunnel skirmish!

The enemies, undoubtedly a larger and previously unknown portion of the White Fang's assault force, were doing well keeping them pinned down with gunfire. But the Burrow fighters couldn't just sit around and hide. They had to do something, anything!

He was at a complete loss in this open space. Where simply charging his foes had worked in nearly every encounter he'd come across before, this clearing was far too devoid of cover past these boulders. If he tried it here, he'd be ripped to shreds in seconds. Helplessness began to creep into his mind.

Then he felt it. A sudden change in the air that brought with it a sense of anticipation. Leon realized it _was_ the actual air that changed; specifically, the wind had picked up and was blowing to his left. And it was getting stronger with each passing second. Looking over, he noticed Silas leaning his back against another boulder with his eyes closed in deep concentration. In his hand was Nightfall, and nocked to its string was…_that_ arrow. The Ringer.

The arrow was incredibly massive, even compared to his usual great arrows. Its bell-shaped head was the largest part, obviously built to contain something that Silas had always neglected to inform him of. He did admit, however, that even the impressive draw strength of Nightfall would only be able to shoot this arrow about thirty yards under normal circumstances, making it less-than ideal for the long-range encounters Silas would need to use the bow in.

But Leon understood that Silas was going to change those circumstances, and a spark of hope ignited in his heart.

Silas was one of the few gladiators who was able to proficiently use Dust, and Leon knew that the stirring wind was his doing when he saw the jade green crystals inlaid in Nightfall's hilt begin to release a soft glow. He could see from the gravel and dirt particles the wind currents picked up that Silas was centering his miniature cyclone on the Ringer, swirling them around the arrow.

Just then, Adrian seemed to snap out of his daze. He shook his head and glanced over at Leon inquisitively. "Hey, uh…what're you lookin' at?"

Leon turned to him with a smile. "Silas is pulling another miracle out of his arse."

Over at his boulder, Silas turned, tilted Nightfall so that the Ringer was aimed toward the clouds, and let it fly. The Ringer shot forward faster than normal physics would allow such a heavy projectile go. But Silas had a way of bending the laws of physics to fit his fancy, and he used the concentrated wind currents to keep the Ringer flying straight and true. Leon's eyes tracked it on its path, which would carry it far above the treetops. He could only guess as to Silas' plan of action.

The Ringer soared into its apparent destination, which was almost directly above the edge of the forest where the White Fang had dug in. Just when Leon began to question what good it would do all the way up there, Silas rang the bell.

Leon had speculated that the mysterious head contained some kind of explosive ordinance, but this was no simple explosion. No, when the Ringer rang it exploded into what looked like many smaller objects which fell down in a fiery rain upon the White Fang positions. Those objects impacted all along the forest edge with their own individual detonations. Detonations with very expansive coverage. The trees themselves disintegrated in the wake of such destructive power, to say nothing of the squishy meatbags that had felt so secure moments ago. Among the countless pieces of rubble that flew through the air, Leon noticed with a sense of elation that many bodies, some more intact than others, were sent flying. He even saw the top half of a scorched battle mech twist and turn through the air.

Silas observed his handiwork with a jolly shout, and Leon found himself joining in. Soon the rest of the surviving gladiators were cheering.

Even Hartman cracked a bit of a smile. "Atta boy, Silas! Press on, gladiators! Let's kick 'em while their down!"

Another round of heartened roars, and once again the gladiators charged once more unto the breach. Anticipating some return fire, the Burrow fighters spread themselves out. Leon was sprinting close to Silas, who was still laughing despite everything that'd happened that day.

"You never fail to amaze, Silas!" Leon had to shout over the raging din that arose from the rest of the gladiators. "That was one helluva display! Brought a tear to my eye, it did!"

Silas raised his voice accordingly. "Well, aye certainly hope ye enjoyed it, lad! The Ringer was a right bugger to craft! Now how's about we go git ourselves some bloody payback, eh!?"

Leon flashed his scarred smile. "We left the Burrow to go and slaughter some White Fang! The way I see it, them coming here just saves some time!"

The frontline gladiators were only a few dozen meters from the disintegrated remains of the forest edge. From the charred new tree line some yards away, more faunus soldiers strode out, some with swords and hammers in hand and others firing bursts of Dust rounds at the scattered fighters. But without the heavy concentration of bullets that cut down so many gladiators initially, the fighters were able to take evasive maneuvers and their aura absorbed the few shots that hit their marks.

This time, when the sides collided, the scales were markedly tipped in favor of the gladiators. There were only around twenty faunus to hold back the twenty-two Burrow fighters who remained able to fight. These soldiers began to fall at the hands of the gladiators fairly quickly. After a minute of fighting, only eleven faunus remained. They were bunched together now, backing away from the angry mob that threatened to tear them apart.

Hartman stepped forward from the gladiators and strode confidently toward the remaining White Fang. Demon Flare ignited and Devil's Handshake was raised.

Just when it seemed that Hartman would roast the fools, they suddenly all dropped low to the ground. Hartman, his sixth sense warning him of potential incoming fire, instinctively brought Devil's Handshake up to cover his face.

Then the blasts slammed into him, a rapid succession of explosions which sent Hartman soaring back into the crowd of gladiators like a meteor before impacting the grassy field and leaving a trail of dirt torn into the landscape.

Leon looked back toward the White Fang and immediately saw where the blasts had come from, and his blood ran cold at the sight of the giant, heavily armored faunus with massive bull horns jutting out from the sides of his shaggy-haired head, and a large ring hanging from his thick nose. The beast was wielding…something Leon had never seen before. It almost looked like a chain gun at the back, but the front was a single long tube which held a muzzle break at the end. Leon was baffled for a moment, but then he noticed the grenade rounds hanging in bandoliers around his armor.

It was some kind of rapid-fire grenade machinegun. Aimed right at the gladiators.

Leon's heart skipped a beat. "Aw, hell."

The bull faunus pulled back the trigger to unleash his own rain of fire.

If the Burrow fighters had thought the first ambush had been bad, then this new threat was absolutely devastating. Many consecutive _thumps_ were succeeded by many explosions impacting around the gladiators, scorching the earth and spewing dirt and stone shards into the air. The fact that the gladiators were scattered didn't make much difference in the wake of the massive amount of splash damage those grenades dished out. Countless gladiators were blasted away like leaves against a strong gale. Add to this that most of these gladiators had taken many hits in the last hour and had low aura…some were able to stand up and make a break for cover, but far too many were maimed, scorched, or blown to pieces by the merciless onslaught.

Hartman was up and yelling again, albeit this time he was ordering everyone to fall back. His charred armor had actually been cracked and, at the center of the blast that had hit him, broken through.

Leon broke out of his momentary lapse and dashed to the left, as the bull faunus was currently aiming to the right. He made it behind another boulder without getting spotted, so he poked his head around to size up the situation. If Leon could just flank around the heavy faunus somehow, he might be able to try and land a blow in one of the tiny chinks in his armor. But the idea immediately seemed more of a fantasy, for the Bull was covered by a very large squad of faunus firing very large firearms. If Leon made a move, they'd probably gun him down before he even got close. But perhaps if their attention was focused elsewhere…

"I know what you're thinking, and I agree." Leon hadn't heard Adrian catch up to him in the commotion. Turning to face him, Leon saw something in Adrian's face that he'd never seen before. It was in the slight grinding of his teeth and the fire in his eyes. Hatred. "Get ready to rush the filthy dogs. I'll make sure they won't be lookin' your way." At this he twirled his sword once in his left hand, and began to turn away.

Leon's arm shot out and grabbed his shoulder. "Whoa, whoa whoa! What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

Adrian shook him off. "Leon, bro…it's _them_. The ones who took my family from me. The big-ass faunus with the giant friggin' gun, and…" His voice trailed off, and another look came over his face, a mixture of anger and horror. "That sparkle shot that first hit us…it came from _his_ weapon."

Leon shook his head in confusion. "Man, you gotta quit playin' the pronoun game with me. Who is _he_?"

Adrian looked back over at the White Fang advancing toward the Burrow, and his face contorted into a snarl. He pointed at something. "Him. Roman Torchwick."

Leon, as well as almost everyone else in and around Vale, knew the name. And when he followed Adrian's finger, he recognized the criminal instantly. Torchwick was striding along the rear of the battlefield, casually twirling his cane. Unsurprisingly, he was clad in his signature outfit, which was his black bowler hat with the red band above the brim, gray scarf and pristine white coat.

As Leon took in his presence, Torchwick lifted his cane up and pointed its end toward a group of three gladiators who were hunkered down behind a large log and picking off individual White Fang soldiers. The end of the cane flipped up into a circular crosshair and a spark of twinkling orange burst out, soaring through the air. It slammed into the log with an explosion which was unexpectedly big for such a small projectile. The log shattered into a thousand smoldering shards and the gladiators were thrown to the ground. Before they could even regain their footing, the bull faunus fired a trio of grenades into their midst. Three bright flashes erupted with three claps of thunder…and only bits remained of the Burrow fighters who had been fighting only seconds ago.

Torchwick laughed maniacally at the spectacle.

As his anger boiled up inside him once more and his hands clenched around the axe hilt, Leon felt Adrian's hand on his shoulder. Turning to face him, he saw yet another emotion on Adrian's face: determination. "That man…he's a monster. And he's far more dangerous than any Grimm we could find in the wild. He needs to _die_, Leon." He took a deep breath. "And I bet we can be the ones to do it. We just need to take down his muscle first."

Leon harbored some doubts, though. "You know I'm always with you, man. But you take one step out in front of that Bull and his entourage, and you'll get more holes in ya than a firing range dummy. How're ya gonna compensate for that?"

In spite of his anger, Adrian cracked a small grin. "Don't you worry about that. I got one more ace up my sleeve. You just wait 'til they start turnin' my way, then go and do what you do best."

Leon looked at him for a second, and then nodded. "Absolutely. You got it." Leon offered his hand, which Adrian heartily shook. They'd shared countless handshakes like it in the past, but something about this one felt eerily…final. Of course, given what they were about to attempt, there was every chance one or both of them wouldn't make it.

Somehow, though, Leon found the courage to keep smiling. "Just another day at the office, huh?"

Adrian chuckled. "You said it. We ain't dead yet. Now let's go raise hell." And with that, Adrian turned and dashed around the boulder toward a smaller line of White Fang snipers in the back.

The odds they faced were perilous indeed, but they'd stared death in the face almost every day in the Burrow. They were gladiators, after all.

Leon took a look at Adrian's charge. The Bull and the soldiers surrounding him were still busy tearing up the lawn and didn't yet notice him approaching the group of six faunus hunkered down in one of the many holes that the Ringer had created. The same couldn't be said of the snipers, however, and they turned to open fire on Adrian as he ran at them.

Leon winced as the shots tore through Adrian…but they did no damage whatsoever. In fact, the Dust rounds went straight _through_ him, not affecting him at all. For a moment, Leon had no earthly idea what was going on. Then he took a good look at Adrian, and then he understood. His body had taken on a pale, translucent look and a misty substance was emanating off of him as he ran.

It seemed that Silas wasn't the only gladiator using their semblance today. Leon was quite surprised, though. He'd had no idea that Adrian had even discovered his semblance, let alone that he could use it. It seemed as if his semblance put him in some sort of ghost-like state, rendering him immune to harm. This newfound ethereal transcendence allowed him to reach the snipers' position without a single scratch on him.

As soon as he was within range of the first faunus, he brought his sword up. Just before it fell, the mist dissipated and color returned. He slashed at the closest faunus, and then swiped left at the second. They both dropped like flies. The other four raised their rifles, but before they could fire he reactivated his semblance. Once again, the bullets passed right through.

Leon was beginning to wonder why Adrian hadn't used his semblance earlier, such as during the harrowing fight against the ursae, when the mist vanished prematurely and Adrian was hit on the left arm by one of the Dust rounds. Luckily, it was only a glancing blow and didn't cause too much damage, but it sure looked painful. His semblance kicked in again and the snipers wasted the rest of their ammunition shooting a ghost. Once their clips were dry, Adrian became tangible again and, with a few swift strikes from his cold, steel blade, the snipers were down.

Judging from the wound that Adrian had just suffered, Leon could deduce that he was able to use his semblance…just not with complete control. Still, it was quite impressive to watch it in action.

Suddenly, the incoming fire from the Bull and his guards ceased. Turning his gaze back toward the heinous squad, Leon witnessed the opportunity he'd been bracing himself for. One of the snipers had almost certainly sent a panic-stricken cry for help before Adrian silenced them, and now the Bull and all the White Fang soldiers surrounding him simultaneously spun on their heels to face this new threat on their flank. The opening was so broad and inviting, Leon felt like it was Christmas in July. Adrian hunkered down as a terrifying storm of gunfire tore through the air toward him, which was by now filled with the stench of smoke and the countless bodies of the fallen combatants which littered the fields of the Bloody Burrow.

And with their backs turned, Leon intended to add a few more corpses into the mix.

Taking one more breath in anticipation, Leon mustered as much of his aura as he could into his legs. Arms steady, eyes on the prize. Leon shot forward with the fury of a cannonball.

There was a considerable amount of open ground between Leon and his oblivious targets, but Leon dashed at such speed that he glided across the battlefield. The earth beneath him was thrown aside and the trail he blazed was akin to a meteor impact. Adrian may have been a ghost, but Leon moved like the Reaper himself, moving in for the kill.

By the time his approach was noticed by the nearest faunus in the group, no force on Remnant could have hoped to stop him. The lightly-armored soldier could only gasp, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights, as the blue-haired behemoth swung his mighty axe horizontally in a cleave that severed her chest from her waist.

And he did not stop. Leon kept moving through like a train without brakes. A faunus on his left was still firing at Adrian, so Leon carved his back from shoulder to hip with a downward slash as he passed. A third on the right brought his shotgun to bear, but before he could pull the trigger he had his legs quite literally swept out from under him as Leon swung low, amputating them.

Yet one more faunus stood between him and the Bull, and this one began swinging a mace and chain in preparation to halt Leon's relentless advance. A weapon that heavy might actually get in his way if Leon continued running in his straightforward path, so he quickly decided to try something unexpected. Taking a few more powerful lunges forward, Leon leaped into the air, his jumping power augmented by the aura still being channeled into his legs. The White Fang soldier had, predictably, expected Leon to try and plow his way through him and, accordingly, put as much power as he could muster into a frontal swing that probably would have stopped him dead in his tracks. But the faunus met no target to stop his momentum, so he lost his balance and staggered forward. Leon crashed down upon the faunus, planting his boot firmly on the soldier's face and slamming down to the ground. Leon heard and felt a sickening crunch beneath his foot.

Leon rolled and landed back on his feet, his charge never faltering. The Bull was still unaware of the close proximity of the large, scarred gladiator who'd just carved a bloody swath through his guards. Leon was rapidly closing in on him. At this point, even if he noticed him at that exact moment, there was no way he'd be able to bring his glorified Roman candle around before Leon reached him. Leon brought his gore-drenched axe up high above his head, preparing to carve it right into the Bull's ugly mug. Just another second or two, and…

And suddenly another figure appeared, dashing out from somewhere behind the Bull. Another of his guards, hauling arse with no weapons in his hands. Going in for a tackle. Leon tried to bring the hilt of his axe back down to block him, but he couldn't manage it fast enough. Leon felt the faunus slam into him with almost as much force as the ursa major back in the arena. Leon's axe slipped from his grasp, its blade planting itself firmly in the dirt.

The two tumbled and fell next to another boulder, with the White Fang scumbag landing on top of Leon. The faunus wasted no time getting down to business, and delivered a powerful right hook that impacted Leon's jaw with a jolt of pain. Another blow followed, from the left this time. Believing he had Leon subdued, the soldier wrapped his gloved hands around Leon's neck, intending to strangle him. The sudden pressure on his throat quickly snapped Leon out of the stunned state the strikes had left him in, and he grabbed the soldier's wrists with a crushing iron grip. The faunus was initially able to hold his choking grasp, but it only took a few seconds for Leon to force his hands off. The White Fang peon wasn't nearly as strong as he clearly thought he was, and he most definitely wasn't as strong as Leon.

Leon noticed the faunus' left leg moving toward him, and he saw a glint of sunlight reflect off something on the tip of his boot. Then the boot connected with Leon's right side, and he felt a sharp, burning pain explode where it hit. Leon growled in pain, gritting his teeth and squeezing the faunus' wrists with even more force. Looking down, he saw that a small blade had protruded from the soldier's boot and stabbed him. Bright red blood poured out of the wound and onto the dirt. It was quite painful, but more than anything it was infuriating. This little battle couldn't be allowed to go on.

Leon suddenly threw the faunus' right arm to the side and swiftly delivered an elbow strike to his exposed throat. The soldier tried to cry out in pain, but only a gasping wheeze came out. The blow had crushed his throat.

The faunus, ironically, brought his hands up to hold his own neck, leaving Leon free to reach up, grab the side of his head and then end the scuffle by pounding his head into the nearby boulder. The impact shattered his skull, spraying a good amount of blood and viscera all over the boulder and Leon. With the fight over, Leon threw the body aside and stood, his hand holding the wound on his right side. It hurt like the dickens, but it was by no means fatal. So he shrugged it off.

After all, he had a larger problem quite literally staring him in the face. Much larger.

The Bull was staring straight at him, as was the steaming barrel of his grenade machinegun. Leon could only assume that he hadn't blasted him to high Hell yet was because his comrade had been right on top of him. But now the faunus was just another corpse in the killing field, and there was no longer any reason to hold his fire. Leon could still feel some blood trickling out of the gash in his side. The fact that he'd gotten it was a serious red flag, warning him that his aura was running on fumes. No way was there enough to protect him from the payload that was undoubtedly about to send him to the afterlife in many small pieces.

Leon had been in many "hopeless" situations throughout his short life. Hell, the last day alone was a testament to that. But he'd always come out on top. Not unscathed by any means, but at the very least alive. There had to be some way out of this jam, one that he just couldn't see yet. But he knew he only had a few precious seconds to think, and even fewer to act.

Leon glared at the Bull with all the defiance he could muster. His axe was still embedded in the dirt a mere four feet away, but the instant he made a move toward it he'd almost certainly be blown sky high. He knew that. But he also knew that just standing there like an idiot would end no differently.

The corners of the Bull's mouth turned upward in what could be conceived as some sort of hideous smile.

Damn it all, if he was going to die here, he would go down fighting. He dashed for his axe.


	6. Shatter

**RWBY: Ascendant**** Spark**

Chapter 6 – Shatter

The Bull's hairy finger was curled around the trigger, and for a moment Leon thought he could see oblivion in the darkness of the grenade machinegun's scorched barrel.

But before the fatal projectile could be shot, something dark and thin soared through the air at extreme velocity toward the bloodthirsty faunus.

The object impacted the Bull's weapon, forcefully jarring its aim widely to the right. The trigger was pulled, and the grenade rounds barreled out on their missions of death…and they flew right past Leon, exploding around two of his own guards who were still firing at Adrian's position.

Leon grinned. _Just in time, pal. Looks like I'm not finished yet._ He'd seen the great arrow shoot through the dusty air and embed itself three inches into the grenade machinegun that had nearly ruined his day. And looking over, he saw Silas—the brave, wonderful son of a gun—leaping over his boulder and sprinting their way, launching great arrows downrange at an insane pace. As Leon's hand wrapped around the hilt of his axe, he also saw that Adrian had made his way here in ethereal form and was engaging his foes with vigor.

The Bull's few remaining guards were dropping one after another, either from marksman's arrows or ghost's blade. And Leon, axe back in hand, was going to do exactly what he'd set out to do.

The Bull hastily pulled the great arrow out of his gun and turned it back toward Leon. But the battle-scarred gladiator was now only a few meters away and closing fast, so the Bull was forced to aim much lower than he was comfortable with. Regardless, the Bull fired again.

A single grenade shot out of the barrel on a direct collision course with Leon. But though his aura reserves were criminally low, he still had an unreasonable amount of adrenaline coursing through his veins. The whole world seemed to slow down before him, and he clearly saw the grenade sailing toward him. A direct impact would obliterate him entirely, and merely sidestepping it would result in the splash damage still partially roasting him.

But if he could keep his forward momentum going, he might, just _might_, be able to put enough distance between himself and ground zero to avoid being blown apart like a house of cards in a tornado.

To that effect, Leon flipped forward with his left arm extended in a one-handed somersault over the projectile. As his body went horizontal his chest passed centimeters above the grenade, and it continued on its path. His left hand hit the dirt while his right hand tightly gripped the hilt of his axe, and he pushed off the ground with as much strength as he could muster. The flip continued, and he was still airborne when the grenade hit the ground and detonated in a deafening blast of thunder and fire.

The fact that Leon hadn't hit the ground yet, and the fact that his back was fully facing the blast, had probably saved his life. Rather than being engulfed in the blaze, the shock wave caught his back like wind in a sail, actually propelling him forward through the air toward his quarry. And finally, Leon managed to close the gap between him and the Bull with a powerful upward cleave as he began to descend.

Sadly, the Bull's reaction time was short, and the huge faunus saved his arm from dismemberment by bringing up his portable death machine and holding it before him as an impromptu shield. Leon's axe sliced the grenade machinegun into two halves as his boots hit the ground in a puff of blackened dirt and ash. But there was no way in Hell that Leon was going to leave this monster unscathed, so as he skidded along the earth he twisted clockwise to slash sideways at the Bull's thick hide. It connected with a hard _THUNK_, but his aura was much stronger than the rest of the White Fang cannon fodder and Leon only succeeded in gouging his armor.

Despite the little damage done, the Bull became rather pissed. His teeth were gritted and he snorted angrily before turning to Leon and charging ferociously. Leon barely had time to roll out of the way to avoid being crushed to a pulp by any four of his trunk-like limbs.

Leon would have no reprieve, however, as the Bull altered his charge to face him once more. Leon was only steps away from being mowed over like a grass beneath a lawn mower when a great arrow flashed by his shoulder and slammed into the Bull's chest. His aura held and the shaft ricocheted off, but the force of it slowed his advance enough for a second to hit his left leg and a third to strike his stomach. The rapid succession of attacks was sufficient to halt his charge, causing him to glare furiously at the offender.

Just in time to bring his left hand up to cover his face against one more arrow. The dark shaft pierced right through his hand, and the Bull was infuriated to see the thick point stopped mere inches from his face, dripping blood.

Then the arrowhead beeped twice, and the expression on his face was replaced with bewilderment.

The arrow exploded at point blank range, sending the massive faunus flying backward. The Bull landed with a hard _THUD_ and a cloud of dust, rolled a few meters, and then finally stopped. When the Bull stood again, he was much worse for wear. The entire left side of his armor was charred black and cracked in many places. One section on his left waist was completely blown off, revealing scalded skin beneath. His left arm and the left side of his face suffered similar wounds, but the facial injuries did not prevent him from glaring at the attacker in rage.

As Leon got back on his feet, leaning on his axe for support, Silas strode up beside him. Taking a quick glance, Leon saw that all the guards were dead or otherwise incapacitated. Silas disconnected Nightfall's grip and gave Dawn and Dusk a few experimental twirls. He grinned warmly at Leon, then much less warmly at the Bull.

"Oi, ya damned bloody meat slab! Ye want to tussle with me boy here, then yer gonna have to contend with me as well." Silas brandished his scimitars, ready for a fight. Leon had to admit, Silas looked ready to roll in his ranger-like garb, especially with his hood raised and his cloak blowing gently in the wind. He had the appearance of a mysterious ranger, hunting in the wild forests. "And if ye think yer gonna take one more step toward the Bloody Burrow while we're still breathing, ye've got another thing comin'."

The Bull lowered his head, looking like he was more than ready to accommodate Silas' declaration and take the both of them on. He reared back, preparing to charge again. But Leon saw a flash of movement behind the big beast of a faunus, and the Bull must have picked up on some noise because he started to turn around.

That was when Adrian leaped up onto the side of a nearby tree, pushed off it with his feet, and slashed at the Bull's neck with his sword before landing catlike on his feet in front of the monstrous faunus.

His clothing was stained with dirt and blood, and the few pieces of armor he had donned on his chest and wrists were scratched and riddled with dents where Dust rounds had impacted and been halted by his aura. The sleeveless tunic he wore underneath revealed the countless lacerations on his muscled arms.

The Bull's aura had protected the soft flesh of his throat from the stinging steel, but a strike like that had to hurt something fierce. The Bull roared loudly and threw a massive right cross at Adrian. But there was nothing to hit, as Adrian went ethereal before the armored fist found its mark. He stumbled forward as Adrian sidestepped to the left, became corporeal again, and swung at the Bull's shoulder. Another angry roar was followed by a backhanded swing. Adrian became ethereal once more…but his misty form began to flicker in and out rapidly. He managed to keep his phantasmal form for a full second, just long enough to evade the gargantuan fist that so desperately sought to destroy him.

Adrian opted to forego a third attack in favor of retreat, recognizing that his control over his semblance was tenuous at best. He swiftly hopped backward before the Bull slammed his left foot forward in a frighteningly forceful stomp. A huge indentation now marked the space where Adrian had stood a second earlier.

Now the trio was together, side by side again. All were breathing heavily, and each sporting minor injuries from the intense combat of the day. And all of them were splattered with blood, most of which was not their own.

Despite their obvious fatigue, the Bull was suddenly hesitant to charge at them again. Perhaps it was their numbers, the skill they'd demonstrated, or a combination of the two, but the monstrous soldier seemed to be taking a bit more of a tactical strategy to this fight.

Leon would gladly take the lull in combat to catch his breath. He turned to Adrian, whose face, although he wasn't in ethereal form, was pale as ash. "That's one hell of a trick ya got there." He paused to take a deep breath. "We…heh, there were some times in the past…when we really could've used it, huh?"

Adrian chuckled at the thought. "No kidding…now, if you could just discover your semblance, like, right around now…that'd be fantastic."

Adrian had no idea how much Leon wished that could come to pass. He'd spent entire nights training or even meditating, searching deep within himself in his vain attempts at unlocking his true potential. He'd had to confront many of his inner demons in the process, and it had yielded no measureable results. Yeah, that hadn't been a fun day.

Leon sighed. "That it would, man…that it would. Sadly…no dice. You're just gonna have to settle for this." He gestured widely at himself. "Scratches and all."

Adrian smiled and shook his head. "We've never been that lucky, have we? We never could catch a break. No rest for the wicked, as they say."

Silas piped in from the right. "Aw. Wicked, ye say? Now that's a wee bit harsh. We just fight and sometimes…often…kill things fer a livin'. Huh, when I say it like that, it sounds worse than it did in me head." He chuckled to himself, keeping that reassuring smile alive. "But hey, we ain't bad people. Now this ugly bastard in front o' us, he's one mean fightin' machine. He's the bad guy 'ere."

A voice rang out from the direction of the White Fang lines. "Oh, Dillinger! Dillinger, quit playing around with the rabble, will you?" It was Torchwick, and he approached from behind the Bull to stand beside him. The orange-haired criminal mastermind was dwarfed next to the gigantic faunus. "We do have a schedule to keep, remember. And we're already _severely_ over budget on this little venture."

The Bull, apparently named Dillinger, looked over at his boss uncomfortably. And for the first time, the faunus spoke. The words came out slowly, as if he had difficulty forming them. His voice was incredibly deep, and it almost seemed as if it vibrated through the hazy air. "They aren't like the others, sir. These three can actually fight. Not like the other ants I've crushed beneath my boots."

Leon's fists clenched reflexively at the callous mention of his fallen friends. Silas' smile was replaced by a dark stare. And Adrian, upon seeing Torchwick, began to take a step forward. Leon quickly thrust out his arm to block him. Adrian gave him an irritated glare, but Leon just shook his head. "Don't rush. We'll get them, but we'll do it together."

Torchwick gave the trio a lookover, casually twirling his cane, Melodic Cudgel, around his finger. He appeared thoroughly unimpressed. "So…these are the guardians of the gladiators, eh? The upstarts who've been causing me quite a bit of grief today…" He raised an eyebrow and held up his hand. "Wait a sec, I heard that there were _four_ barbarians with unusually high kill counts. I see the axe murderer, the archer, and Casper the Deadly Ghost, but where's the walking volcano?"

As if on cue, something exploded far off to the right. The entire view was partially impeded by a large boulder, but they did see an eruption of flames followed by a White Fang combat mech flying many meters into the sky. It was in charred and blackened pieces.

Torchwick's gloved palm met his face. "Ugh…those things are very expensive, you know. Though I wouldn't expect you savages to appreciate value."

Leon snorted at that. "Don't make me laugh, scum. You only appreciate material wealth and the ways you can come by it. You don't give a single damn about the value of _life_, or how much of it is lost in your little schemes."

Torchwick, the sick freak, actually snickered in response. "Guilty as charged. But are you really one to talk, gladiator? How many lives have met their end at the edge of _your_ axe, hmm?"

The criminal was trying to bait him, trying to make him angry enough to charge into a fight he would lose. "I'm no saint, that's for damn sure. But I don't fight for money or fame. I do what I have to in order to survive, and to keep my comrades alive and kicking."

Roman gave him an evil grin as he gestured around at the battlefield. At the mangled corpses of his fellow fighters. "And what a wonderful job you've done."

_That's it._ Leon thought to himself. _I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna kill him and take his stupid little hat as a trophy._

Torchwick continued. "Well, I, for one, am not too fond of humanity or its laws. I have my reasons, chiefly that they insist on getting in the way of profit...but, of course, none of that concerns you or your barbarian 'friends'. Quite frankly, you lot are unimportant. Just bugs to be splattered on my windshield, really. You'll all die here today and I'll forget this conversation even occurred." Now he turned to the Bull. "On that note, Dillinger, I expect these losers to be dead and out of the way within ten minutes. I'm giving you a generous time frame here because I see they've gone and broken your favorite toy."

Dillinger frowned. "I really enjoyed blowing things up with it, sir. If I kill these three, may I have a replacement?"

Torchwick rolled his eyes. "That's an issue I'll have to take up with the boss, as weapons like that don't exactly grow on trees. But…I'm sure I'll be able to work it out."

He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a White Fang soldier, or rather his charred corpse, soaring through the air with a trail of fire in his wake. It hit the ground with a thud a few feet from Torchwick, kicking up dirt and blood all over his boots before skidding to a stop several feet away.

Adrian turned his head toward Leon, looked down at his belt and back up at him, nodding slightly. Leon took the hint, using the distraction to swiftly pull the magnum handgun he'd appropriated in the tunnel out of its holster, hastily center his aim on that hated head of orange hair, and pull the trigger.

His first shot rang out, and the Dust round tore right through…his hat. It flew off his head and caught in the wind, floating away into the carnage of the battlefield. And his second shot never came. Leon pulled the trigger repeatedly, but was rewarded only with a faint clicking noise. The damn clip was dry.

Glancing at Leon, at the body and then at his boots, Roman frowned. The fact that he'd almost had his head taken off didn't seem to faze him. "In the meantime, Dillinger, do your job." Then he gestured in the direction that Hartman was fighting. "I've got to call somebody about _that_…"

Torchwick turned away from them, pulling out his scroll as he did so. Then he initiated a call with some unknown person and began to speak in a voice too quiet for the gladiators to hear.

Dillinger turned back to them now, a bit of the primal bloodlust returning to his gaze. "I really want another grenade machinegun, so I'm going to kill you three. And I'm gonna have to do it with my bare hands, you see?" Some indiscernible rumbling noise escaped his throat that almost sounded like a sigh. "You three should have just given up. It wouldn't have saved your lives, but your deaths could have been painless and easy." He gave his best approximation of a smile and clenched his hairy fists. "Not that I'm averse to inflicting a bit of pain."

The threat was clearly intended to intimidate the gladiators, but words truly couldn't break their bones. Dillinger was, funnily enough, not the most worrying factor to Leon. It was Roman. The man was a wild card, and Leon felt instinctively wary of him. His sixth sense was sending off all kinds of red flags, warning him that this man was dangerous. And it would likely require all three of them to do it.

Leon turned to Silas, whom he knew was the most experienced and skilled fighter out of all three. "Silas, you need to take Torchwick on, _mano a mano_. You're the only man I'd trust right now to match him."

Silas raised an eyebrow at that. "Me, laddie? Oi, well I do feel honored at the nomination, but I've heard horror stories about the cane-toting wanker. Ye really think I can kill 'im?"

Leon smiled at the man's honesty. Silas was many things, but cocky wasn't one of them. "Actually, yes. I do believe you could end the bastard. But…" He paused for a second. "…you don't have to. You only need to keep him busy until Adrian and I manage to put the Bull out of action. No way Roman can take all three of us at once."

Silas' grin returned. "I do like the sound o' that, lad." He then reached his hand backward and pulled an arrow out of his quiver, twirling it between his fingers. "I'll do ye two proud. Just ye watch. But not too closely, eh? Ye can't be facin' Dillinger if yer mouths are hangin' agape like usual." He gave them a hearty guffaw to assure that he was joking.

Leon chuckled with him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Good man. Just watch your step."

Then he turned to check on Adrian, whose face was set in calm determination. But his slightly shaking hand betrayed his inner emotions. Whether those were fear, anger, or anticipation, Leon couldn't really say. Whatever thoughts were running through that head of his, though, Leon knew he would remain rock-solid no matter how south the situation went.

Leon then gave their faunus foe a hard look, and found that he agreed with Silas' previous assessment. He was, in fact, ugly. "Look, guys…whether or not we're good, wicked, or some shade of gray, one thing we certainly aren't…is lucky. And we don't need to be." He glanced at his comrades. "All our lives, we've survived in the face of the most sour, rotten luck imaginable. The kind that most people can't live with. Literally. But we've kept on breathing, fighting, and living through our strength, and our fortitude, and our loyalty to each other. We are strong enough to beat what's in front of us, today and tomorrow. The fact that we're still standing proves it."

A curious mix of emotions swirled in his gut, a combination of apprehension, determination and even a bit of excitement. It was the latter that gave him the strength to shoot a confident smirk at his friends. "This guy's huge and he's powerful, but he's also dimwitted and predictable. If we're relatively…careful," Leon used the word lightly, for as he'd told Doctor Owens earlier, care wasn't exactly their forte. "…we can bring this goliath down. Then we go after Torchwick and cut the head off this snake.

"Adrian, Silas…right now we stand to avenge our brethren who have fallen on this field today. And not just them, but also the countless lives these monsters have destroyed. When the smoke finally clears, only one side will be left standing." One more scarred smile. "Let's make sure it's us."

Adrian and Silas hooted in agreement, both ready for action. Leon hefted his axe in his right hand and raised it up high. "For the Bloody Burrow!"

"For the Bloody Burrow!" Both cried in unison. Then the three warriors charged toward their towering foe.

As Dillinger braced himself to meet their charge, Roman turned his head back toward the source of the ruckus that had interrupted his call. He saw the three warriors kicking up dirt rushing toward them, still appearing quite bored. In response, the criminal ever so casually brought up Melodic Cudgel, flipped the sighting reticle up, and sent a twinkling ball of death barreling toward the trio.

But Silas had anticipated the attack and used his semblance to summon a concentrated gale of wind and blasted it at the projectile. The force of the gust caused it to careen in the direction he favored, which in this case was toward Dillinger. The look on the massive faunus' face was one of horrified surprise as his own commander's Dust flare turned midair to slam into him with a bright flash of fire and smoke. The force of the impact was not quite as severe as Silas' explosive arrow, but was definitely a solid hit.

The three gladiators grinned happily as the giant staggered back, another blast mark present on his armor. Roman, on the other hand, was much less than pleased. Frowning angrily, he shifted his grip on Melodic Cudgel to a more melee-inclined one and began to stride toward them. Silas winked at Leon and broke off from the group, moving to intercept him while the younger two continued to run toward the Bull.

Silas and Roman engaged each other first, and Silas opened by swiping first with Dusk in his left hand. Roman leaned backward to dodge, but Silas quickly followed up with a swing of Dawn in his right hand. Dawn's biting edge caught Torchwick on the chest, but the criminal's aura was not only strong, but it was also fresh. He had spent even less time in close combat than Dillinger, and Dawn's strike was reflected easily by his soul's armor.

Roman struck back with a forward thrust, punching the curved end of Melodic Cudgel into Silas' stomach. The swordsman grunted as Torchwick then swung the cane up, cracking into the bottom of his foe's jaw and causing his head to whip back violently.

Roman pressed his advantage, spinning around once to bring Melodic Cudgel in for a sideways blow. But Silas recovered quickly, bringing up Dusk to intercept the cane and deflect it away before throwing a forward punch directly into Roman's unprotected face. Torchwick stumbled backward as Silas dashed forward to continue the attack.

Meanwhile, Leon and Adrian engaged Dillinger once again. The faunus was still reeling from Torchwick's rerouted explosive, allowing Leon to first deliver a very powerful swing straight to his midsection unhindered, followed closely by Adrian thrusting his blade forward in a swift stab. Leon could feel Dillinger's dwindling aura resisting his attack, but the power he'd put into the swing was too great to be halted. The axe blow wreaked havoc on the Bull's stomach armor, busting through the aura and shearing the plate right off. The axe blade even left a nasty gash on the faunus' stomach that splattered the dirt with blood. And Adrian's short sword darted right into the section of Dillinger's armor that had been blown off by Silas' arrow, plunging deep enough into his hide to poke the metal of his back armor. Just as quickly, Adrian pulled the sword right back out and hopped backward.

The enraged Dillinger roared and brought both fists down in a heavy ground pound, choosing no particular target. Leon opted to spin around to the Bull's right side, dodging the attack as it slammed into the ground in an explosion of dust that cracked the earth beneath it. As he spun, Leon swung his axe again at Dillinger's shoulder. The blow was successfully blocked by his aura, but the giant faunus was still staggered from the force of it.

Adrian stepped forward again and easily slashed at Dillinger's face. Interestingly, the Bull desperately moved his head out of the way rather than letting his aura stop the strike. Perhaps his reserves were finally at the end of the line.

With that suspicion in mind, Leon decided to test the limits of whatever luck he possessed, if any. As Dillinger attempted to strike back against Adrian with a wide left-handed backward swing, the gladiator used his semblance to make the arm pass harmlessly through his ghostly form and leave the faunus wide open to another attack.

Leon took the opportunity, channeling the very last reserves of his aura into his left fist in a similar manner as in the arena. Once he felt his soul's strength, and all of his anger and determination, surging with power in his clenched hand, he drew his arm back and slammed his fist into the dented, weakened armor of Dillinger's chest.

An explosion of force and energy erupted from the location of impact, one that surpassed Torchwick's Dust projectile and even Silas' explosive arrow. Dillinger's eyes were wide, and his mouth opened in a silent gasp. A small splash of blood streamed out of it as the attack caused some form of internal damage. The metal plate armor crumpled and broke away like tin foil beneath Leon's fist, and the subsequent aura detonation discharged against Dillinger's unprotected chest. As the massive faunus was sent flying for the second time that day, he could feel ribs crack and perhaps even an organ or two rupture inside of him. It was difficult to tell, which could not be said of the pain that burned through every fiber of his being. His flight ended when his battered body struck another nearby boulder, rending large cracks in the red stone.

But, as before, Dillinger was not yet out of the fight. A somewhat sizeable tree stood beside the boulder, and the Bull gripped a low branch and pulled himself up with it. Once he'd gotten his footing, the faunus brute yanked the branch right off the trunk, providing himself with a crude weapon that equaled the size of Leon's axe. Dripping blood from multiple wounds but fueled by blind fury, Dillinger lumbered toward the blue-haired barbarian who dared to challenge his dominance on the battlefield.

Silas and Torchwick's battle was not so one-sided. Each combatant was fully immersed in a dance of death, striking, dodging and parrying with precise movements. But though hits were rare in their confrontation, Silas seemed to be taking just a few more than his foe, and it was starting to show. His attacks became a bit more predictable and his parries a bit more sluggish. Time, like many aspects of this world, was not on the gladiators' side.

But Silas wasn't the only one in a bad way, and Leon could see the damage Dillinger had taken begin to affect him as well. The Bull, who once moved with angry vitality, now did so with all the precision and confidence of a nevermore with broken wings. He stumbled every other step, limping badly on his right leg. Leon also noticed that Dillinger was squinting at them, which made Leon infer that the faunus brute was on the verge of blacking out.

Leon stood before the approaching faunus, exhausted and drained of aura but also steadfast and resolute. The hands that clasped the hilt of his chipped, bloodied axe were covered in many small cuts and the knuckles were scraped red. But Leon's goal was within reach of those ragged hands, as the tattered Dillinger stepped closer and closer. And finally, once the Bull was within reach, he held his makeshift club high above his head. Summoning any emotion he could muster in his broken state, he brought it down to crush the blue-haired demon that stood in his way.

Dillinger's branch did not find its mark, though, as a flash of steel severed the bludgeon in half with ease. The fury in the Bull's eyes vanished along with his weapon, replaced in an instant with resignation. He knew as soon as the young gladiator's axe had broken his attack that he'd lost. Somehow, against all odds, Dillinger of the White Fang had been bested in battle.

Only a second after Leon had sliced through the branch, he swiftly swung his axe in the opposite direction. An agonized bellow from Dillinger informed him that he'd found his mark, along with a small burst of blood erupting from the faunus' face. Dillinger's meaty hands gravitated to the gash that Leon had carved from his right cheek, along the bridge of his nose and above his left eyebrow. Not a fatal blow, but one that would definitively end their skirmish as Dillinger staggered backward and fell to his knees, with one hand in the dirt and one vainly attempting to staunch the flow of crimson blood from his face.

Leon then released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and began panting heavily from adrenaline. He stared at the massive faunus on the ground before him, not fully comprehending the ramifications of what he was seeing. Then it hit him: they'd done it. The Bull was defeated.

They'd won.

Torchwick heard Dillinger's cry of pain and involuntarily turned his head toward the sound. What he saw caused his stomach to drop like a rock. His second-in-command on this mission was down, kneeling in the ashen dirt and covered in blood. And suddenly, Roman understood the power the gladiators wielded. He understood that he'd underestimated them severely.

Roman cringed at the realization. "Oh, son of a bi—"

His expletive was abruptly cut off by the whizzing of a dark scimitar darting toward him as Silas sent a forward thrust his way. Roman leaned backward and sidestepped to avoid it, but Silas turned Dawn in his hand and slashed diagonally toward the criminal. Dawn's black steel sliced across Roman's chest, pushing him backward to land flat on his arse. Torchwick's aura held the blade away from his skin, but the crime boss was irritated to discover that his white coat was now sporting a clean tear where Dawn had passed through.

Roman sent a sparkling explosive soaring toward Silas' feet and used the blast as a distraction to hop to his feet. His arrogant demeanor was long gone now, and his brows were once again furrowed in concentration.

He may have underestimated these barbarians, but Roman knew he hadn't lost yet. Not by a long shot. He still had an ace in the hole, and the thought gave him some comfort as the swordsman dashed through the smoke to continue the fight.

Adrian walked up to stand beside Leon, a disconcerting smile plastered on his dirt-smeared face. Leon knew the look all too well: a hunger for vengeance. Adrian had told him that it was Roman and Dillinger who'd taken his family from him, which led Leon to assume they were long dead. People taken by organizations like the White Fang didn't last for any great amount of time. And now, Adrian was ready to settle the score.

And Leon certainly wasn't going to deny him the pleasure. "You wrap things up here, Adrian. Do what you have to, but just make sure you do it quickly. We've got a battle to finish."

Adrian's smile dissipated. "Yeah, and after that…it's back into that arena, right?" The thought didn't seem to please him. "I dunno, man. I'll kill this murderous bastard, but after that…I think I've had my fill of death in the Bloody Burrow." He forced a small smile to return. "But we can talk about that after we win, maybe over a decent meal. If Lord Nilloc is generous enough to spare some of his luxury food for once in his life."

Adrian's statement about death surprised Leon, but he grinned at his friend and laid a hand on his shoulder. "I can almost smell it now." He turned to look at the ongoing duel between Silas and Torchwick. "One more enemy to cut down. I'll see you there."

Adrian nodded, and they each began walking in the direction of their goals. Adrian squatted in front of Dillinger, the tip of his blade pressed up beneath his fallen foe's chin. Leon could see his friend saying a few words, but he couldn't make them out. Besides, he was more concerned about the orange-haired criminal fighting with Silas ten yards in front of him.

Concerns aside, Leon was still confident that Roman couldn't take them all on at once. "Torchwick!" Leon yelled. The two fighters broke off and turned toward his voice. Silas grinned and Roman frowned even more, if that was possible. "I hope you don't intend to run, you little rat! It's time for you to pay for what you've done to—"

Suddenly, Leon felt as if he'd been slapped in the back with a hammer and he stumbled forward. At the same time, a searing pain erupted where he'd been hit, right beneath his left lung. He'd once been gored in the leg by a boarbatusk, and this felt agonizingly similar. Leon's left hand involuntarily shot down to cover the injured area.

Leon heard Silas screaming his name, only to be interrupted by a strike from Melodic Cudgel that slammed into his face from the side. Roman was laughing maniacally, at both Silas and Leon.

Leon slowly turned his head down and his heart leapt into his throat when he saw his hand was covered in blood. _His_ blood. And it was pouring out of a bullet hole in his lower left abdomen. Damn it all, he'd been shot in the back.

The wounded gladiator turned around, looking all around to try and find the culprit. It didn't take him long, and the answer made him see red.

"Chance! You damned weasel! What the hell is the meaning of this!?" Chance Tanner, the little cretin, was striding confidently toward Leon with a pistol in each hand. Pistols he hadn't owned when last Leon had seen him the previous day. Each one sported a gleaming dagger-length blade jutting from beneath the barrel. One of them was pointed at Leon, and the barrel was smoking.

Leon realized then that he hadn't seen Chance at any time during this battle, which was unlike him. The stinking viper always loved getting into scraps, but was nowhere to be found in neither the tunnel nor the field. Leon was confused for a moment, until he took a good look at his shiny new weaponry and his familiar white vest, and the pieces finally clicked into place.

Chance was working for the White Fang now. The _enemy_.

"You little shit," Leon whispered.

Chance shot him an evil smile, then pulled the trigger on his pistol again. The Dust round shredded his left kneecap, dropping Leon to the ground in an instant. This time, Leon couldn't have held back the roar of pain that clawed its way out of his throat.

Adrian had also heard the clamor, and all remaining color drained from his face when he saw his companion on his knees. Then he noticed Chance with his bladed handgun aimed right at Leon, and after a flash of confusion his face contorted into a look of hatred far more fearsome than any he'd thrown at Roman or Dillinger. His grip on his sword tightened until his battered knuckles turned white, and he began to break into a run toward the traitor.

But he never got the chance. He only managed a single step before Dillinger stood behind him and hammered him in his spine with a powerful backhanded swing. The blow was devastating, as Adrian had no aura left to shield him from its full force. The gladiator was flung sideways and smashed into the same boulder that had been cracked by Dillinger only minutes before. Adrian seemed terrifyingly limp as he dropped back to the dirt and he lay stone still for a frightening moment.

Then he sluggishly moved his arms to push himself up again. When he stood, he did so with a noticeable hunch, perhaps from some manner of spine damage. Additionally, a stream of angry red blood flowed from somewhere on his head and down the right side of his face. More trickled from his mouth. But still, he stood with his blade raised in defense…even if he could only manage to lift it halfway.

Dillinger was not so impressed by his fortitude. And now that he had the upper hand again, he wasted no time in repaying the gladiator for all the damage he'd dealt. The Bull, true to his given name, lowered his head to point his imposing horns toward Adrian and broke into a half-speed sprint. Dillinger still ran with a limp, but a strong craving for vengeance drove him to push back the immense pain that spiked through his body in protest to exertion. As it was, the reduced speed allowed Adrian to set his back against the wall and brace himself for impact seconds before Dillinger closed the distance.

Adrian couldn't force his legs to dodge the attack, so he quickly grasped Dillinger's left horn with both hands, stopping it mere inches from his heart as he was pressed strongly against the boulder. Dillinger was breathing heavily as he mustered all his strength to push forward against him. His eyes darted with some concern to the sword that Adrian still held between his left hand and Dillinger's horn. The two foes struggled desperately back and forth, the dagger-sharp point of the horn swaying between them.

Chance took his eyes off Leon for a moment to observe them, and Leon made a split-second decision. Though movement would draw Chance's attention back toward him, Leon decided it was worth the risk. If he succeeded, Adrian might yet get out of this mess. But if he did nothing, his friend would become an _actual_ ghost.

So Leon drew his axe back, gripping it low on the hilt, and hurled it toward Dillinger with all his remaining might. The spinning weapon soared right beside Chance's head, causing him to whip it around, aim his right pistol at him, and fire again.

This time, the Dust round shredded his right shoulder. Leon felt it tear through skin and muscle, but the pain was actually minimal. And _that_ certainly wasn't a good thing. Pain told him he was still alive, and that his body was still functioning with relative normalcy. Its absence felt more like numbness. Like a void.

Leon's tumbling axe found its mark, embedding itself in Dillinger's right collarbone. The faunus screamed loudly, blood and spit spewing out of his gnarled mouth…but he did not release his hold on Adrian. The faunus simply grabbed the axe, tore it out and tossed it aside. The gladiator was holding him back with all the strength he could find, but Leon was horrified to see that it would not be enough.

Chance also seemed to have come to the same conclusion. The pale-blond boy walked beside Leon's kneeling form, and mercilessly drove the dagger of his left pistol into Leon's shoulder, right next to the freshly attained bullet wound. _This_ injury lit a fire in his body, repelling the cold numbness that had begun to take hold. Another bellow of pain was forced out of him, which was heightened when another similar wound was delivered to his left shoulder, accentuating the pain.

And for the first time since his betrayal, Chance spoke. His voice was as raspy as ever, though at this moment it was somehow imbued with even _more_ bitterness and hatred. "Now, now, Ferox. Don't go blacking out on me yet. I can't have you dying without first watching the show."

At these words, Chance used the daggers impaling his shoulders as handles to forcibly turn him around, creating entirely new levels of pain that racked Leon's body. He couldn't even cry out anymore, as he was only able to summon a silent scream.

As he turned, Leon could in the distance the last of the gladiators, still fighting the onslaught of invaders. Some were beaten into submission, cut down, or riddled with bullets before his very eyes. He also saw Hartman…just standing in the middle of it all. Not fighting, not being assaulted. Just standing and watching them.

When it was over, Leon was fully facing Dillinger and Adrian. And what he witnessed would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He was utterly powerless, unable to even move, as Dillinger slowly inched his gleaming horn closer and closer to Adrian's chest. The young gladiator was faltering, the limits of his strength finally reached. And he knew it. So Adrian, accepting that this was the end of the line for him, did the only thing he could think to do.

Adrian let go of the horn with one hand, his sword hand. And he thrust forward with his short sword just as Dillinger thrust his horn forward. Adrian's blade sank deeply into the area right above Dillinger's right lung…and Dillinger's horn directly skewered Adrian's left lung. The black-haired gladiator gave only a ragged gasp, with a far-off look in his eyes.

Something burned deep inside Leon, though Chance hadn't further injured him yet. It felt like boiling magma was flowing from his heart. Leon watched Dillinger as he pulled his horn out, dripping with his friend's blood.

The figure that Dillinger presented catalyzed a horrific flashback for Leon: the archsanguinic, towering over the bodies of his parents. With a blade planted firmly in its chest, and covered in blood.

But this time, Leon did not scream in rage, in pain, in anguish. He could only stare blankly as Adrian dropped to his knees. Leon distantly heard Silas screaming bloody murder before being beaten again by Torchwick, who was basking in the horror of the moment, gorging himself on the pain like a bag of candy.

Then Adrian turned his head toward Leon, and somehow…somehow, Adrian found one last reserve of strength to smile.

Adrian was still staring at Leon when the light left his eyes forever. Then his limp body collapsed and joined the ranks of the fallen.

The burning sensation in his heart intensified, the blood in his veins now sparking with rabid energy as his anguish and his fury began to seep through his mind like cracks in a dam.

Chance laughed like a raving madman as he pulled the daggers from Leon's shoulders and subsequently slashed one of them across his chest. A dark splash of crimson erupted from the shallow wound, but now Leon felt nothing. No pain, no numbness, and, inexplicably, he felt not even a void.

It was as if his mind, body and soul split into separate entities. His mind began to shut itself away from the cruel world it inhabited. His body suffered from physical torture. And his soul began to boil with searing heat and crackle with furious electricity.

Chance did not see any of this, though, and continued to slash randomly at Leon in the hopes of inflicting as much pain on him as possible before he joined Adrian in the land of the dead.

"Every day, Ferox! Every single day, you were an obstacle I could not overcome! Not an hour went by that you didn't get in the way of my success, and not a single damned duel against you could I _win_!" Chance was almost foaming at the mouth as he emphasized each statement with another slash. "But not today! Today, I have the upper hand, and today _I_ shall be the one standing victorious! You will NOT live to see tomorrow, Ferox! Today, I will send you back to the ashes where you BELONG!"

And at that moment, something broke inside Leon. No, "broke" would be an unforgivable understatement. Something _shattered_.

Leon gave one word in response. A calm, quiet word that was nonetheless backed with every single ounce of his fury, his vengeance, and his bloodlust.

"Die."

Chance suddenly halted his attacks as he saw something in Leon at that moment, something that instantly sapped all of his will to fight, all of the anger that had been mindlessly manifested seconds earlier. The cowardly traitor began to back away, but it was far too late. No force in this world or the next could have saved him.

The gladiator raised his left arm, bloodied fist clenched like a vice. He repeated his statement, his command, now with far greater volume and intensity. A word that echoed with power across the battlefield.

"_DIE!_"

As he roared the word, Leon felt a surge of energy culminate around his arm. It felt dangerous, it felt furious...it felt powerful.

Then he slammed his fist into the ground, and Leon Ferox was fully unleashed upon Remnant.


	7. Thunderstorm

**RWBY: Out of Ashes**

Chapter 7 – Thunderstorm

Pitmaster Hartman was by no means a man easily impressed, and certainly not easily frightened. But the events that unfolded in front of him that day sent an icy shiver down his spine, the likes of which he had never experienced before in his long, violent life.

As the fields of the Bloody Burrow blazed with warfare around him, and his gladiators valiantly defended their land with their very lives, he was angered deeply that he could do naught but stand and watch.

The order had come down upon him from Lord Nilloc himself: stand down. For reasons entirely unknown to Hartman, his boss had commanded him to halt the entire defense and let the White Fang trash walk right on through. The order had come completely from out of left field, and Hartman had to ask twice for confirmation. He'd gotten it.

Though the order greatly displeased him, Hartman recognized its authority and relayed it to the other gladiators via their scrolls.

And the little bastards had refused. At first, Hartman thought that perhaps their scrolls had been damaged in the fighting, but the dirty looks he'd received from them as they continued to battle told him the truth of the matter.

As Hartman continued to survey the battlefield, it was clear as to what was driving their will to fight. Leon and Adrian, the young guns, were duking it out with Dillinger himself, and were actually taking him down. Silas was engaged with Torchwick, and on fairly even terms. Their fortitude in the face of annihilation was inspiring the others to follow their lead. Hell, Hartman had to admit that watching the three half made _him_ want to keep punching the crap out of these invaders and push them out once and for all.

But as tempting as the idea was, he still knew loyalty…at least to his superiors. His days spent as a sergeant in a professional mercenary band had drilled that value firmly into his mind. But his career had also impressed upon him the importance of accepting the deaths of his men, a regrettable value which would need to be demonstrated once more.

So it was that he balled his fists and grit his teeth as Chance Tanner strode on to the battlefield in a White Fang uniform and shot Leon down from behind. Initially, Hartman thought that Leon had perished right off the bat, but it would prove that neither that shot, nor the second or third, would put the blue-haired gladiator down.

And, like a house of cards with its foundation torn away, the defense began to collapse on its own. Silas and Adrian were both distracted by Chance's attacks, and were each brought down by their respective foes. Hartman turned his head momentarily to avoid seeing Dillinger's horn piercing Adrian's chest, knowing that he could have saved the boy's life were his feet not stayed by his Lord's command.

His patience was tested even further with Chance's wanton attacks on Leon, who appeared almost broken at the sight of his friend's demise. Silas was being beaten into submission by a laughing Torchwick, and the other gladiators' will to fight had been wiped out along with their heroes.

Hartman was seconds away from pounding Chance into mincemeat, orders be damned, when the traitor's attacks suddenly stopped dead. And when Hartman looked back at Leon, his blood ran cold.

The gladiator's broken, lacerated body was quite literally glowing with power. The veins that snaked beneath his skin were alight with blue energy, and sparks of lightning seemed to erupt out of his body. His eyes, once abounding in friendliness to his comrades and determination against his foes, now burned with what could only be described as berserk madness.

Chance threw his shiny new weapons to the dirt and stumbled away as the enraged gladiator held his fist up high.

"_DIE!_"

Leon's heart was emitting the most brilliant light of all, and it pulsed once as it sent a massive amount of electric energy up his arm. Then Leon thrust his fist into the ground in a detonation of electric power that caused the very earth to rend and crack. A thunderous shockwave cascaded throughout the battlefield, throwing many nearby fighters off their feet and leaving a blackened, steaming crater twenty feet wide.

Hartman was barely able to keep his footing, and had to bring up his armored hands to cover his face from the spray of dust and dirt that followed the shockwave.

Chance, being the closest in proximity, was sent flying upward by the attack. Hartman was able to see his flailing form as he soared helplessly through the smoky air, but what followed happened almost too quick to follow.

Leon, his body ejecting random arcs of lightning, stood up. This act in itself was astonishing, as his injuries had previously prevented him from even staying on his feet. The astonishment was increased when Leon crouched down, then leapt upward after Chance at breakneck speed.

The young gladiator caught up to Chance midair and delivered a lightning-enhanced spinning kick to his stomach. The traitor shot downward and impacted the ground with enough force to create cracks. Chance wasn't screaming in pain, so it was likely that his spine had been snapped.

Before anyone could even react, Leon shot a stream of lightning from his legs and used it as a propellant back to the ground. As soon as he reached it, he hit Chance's limp form with an electric punch at speeds rivaling that of sound. When the strike found its mark, another explosion of electric aura followed. Another crater was blasted into the landscape...and all that was left of Chance Tanner was a smoking carpet of ash laying in the bottom of it.

As the dust began to settle, all combatants underwent a hushed silence as the powerful aura exerted its pressure across the battlefield. Each fighter was, for a moment, overwhelmed by the sudden surge of raw energy that emanated from the young gladiator.

Even Dillinger was staring wide-eyed at his foe. Perhaps it was his heavily injured condition finally beginning to catch up with him, but the White Fang's infamous and fearsome Dillinger seemed...afraid. Even terrified. Yes, Hartman could definitely tell the giant faunus was terrified. The dread was etched into his slashed, bloody face.

His entire life was centered on strength, the ability to face his foes in combat and kill them. But while he may have accumulated an impressive amount of strength, but what the fighter displayed before him now was something far greater: power. True power, the likes of which Dillinger had never been able to even imagine in the past.

And here he was, barely able to stay standing while this barbaric pit fighter, whose wounds should have proven even more fatal than his own, was able to channel all of his rage into pure energy. Every animal and faunus instinct in his body screamed at him to flee, to run or limp or crawl as far away from this monster as he possibly could. For the first time since he'd learned to kill, his instincts were telling him to choose flight.

But at that moment, just as Dillinger was ready to turn on his heels, Hartman saw him fumble around for something: his scroll. He could also see Torchwick himself, legging it hard back into the broken tree line. Hartman could barely discern that the criminal was also on his scroll, seemingly screaming a message into it. It could be inferred that Dillinger was receiving one final order from his cowardly superior, and in response the Bull paused and quickly surveyed the battlefield. Hartman did the same, and came to an obvious conclusion. The White Fang outnumbered the remaining gladiators by almost three to one.

Dillinger then clenched his fists at his sides and began stepping toward his troops, vainly attempting to conceal his newly-earned limp.

The mere sight of their legendary commander, still on his feet after receiving such grievous injuries, seemed to inspire the White Fang soldiers. A murmur of encouragement swept through their ranks as they began to brandish their weapons once again. The eleven surviving gladiators who had previously been locked in combat with them now stepped back and regrouped, preparing themselves for whatever happened next.

"My comrades of the White Fang!" Dillinger's deep voice vibrated across the field. "That warrior," he declared as he swept his hand toward Leon's electrified form, "...is the very last obstacle that stands in our way. He is their anchor. And when he goes down, he will drag the rest of the rabble down with him."

Dillinger bent over, struggling to push back yet another wave of agony, to pick up a fallen longsword. As he turned toward Leon, he shouted to his men, "The time to end this battle is now!" The thirty-odd faunus fighters cheered in agreement as they all charged behind the Bull toward their quarry.

Of course, they seemed to have a false idea of who exactly was the quarry and who was the hunter.

Leon's head shot up, electricity bursting out of his bright blue glowing eyes. The boy gave a most chilling smile that far more resembled the baring of fangs, and dashed out to meet them head-on.

Leon passed near his axe, still lying in the bloodstained grass, as he tore across the field and he grasped it in stride. Lightning snaked up his arms and all around the weapon, imbuing it with wild electric power.

The remaining gunners in the White Fang began taking potshots at Leon as they grew nearer and nearer to each other. While most of their shots went wild, Hartman could see that they weren't entirely inaccurate, either. Some of the rounds were hitting their mark, slamming into Leon as he forged ahead. The berserking gladiator's aura did not seem to be shielding him, as the rounds impacted his electrified body without impediment. However, the areas where he was hit did not bleed, but instead expunged small bursts of lightning. The wounds glowed bright blue, and began to heal at a hyperactive rate. Leon himself didn't so much as flinch with the impacts, nor was his progress even remotely slowed.

Hartman could only guess at how that boy's enraged aura was affecting him, but the results were terrifyingly obvious. A few of the faster and more zealous soldiers of the White Fang had pulled ahead of Dillinger and the main force. Brandishing a wide variety of different weapons, this vanguard was the first to fall before Leon Ferox.

The leading faunus swung a one-handed hammer at Leon, but the gladiator moved with such speed that he was able to deliver a titanic forward punch to his foe's chest before the hammer was even halfway through its arc. Lightning exploded from Leon's fist upon impact, blowing a bloody hole through the faunus' heart and sending his corpse barreling backward a few dozen meters.

Two more faunus moved in from both sides with swords, prompting Leon to draw back his electrified axe, and then swing it in a three-sixty degree arc around him. The right-hand faunus had his waist separated from his upper torso, while the left-hand one had her left shoulder and jaw severed.

Before the bodies hit the dirt, Leon dashed forward to engage a fourth faunus, this one wielding a halberd. The faunus used the spear end to thrust forward at the gladiator, who twirled out of its way and grasped its hilt as it moved. Leon wrenched the weapon out of its owner's grip as if the faunus were no stronger than a child. Leon drew the halberd back to throw, imbued it with lightning, and chucked it forward like a ballista bolt. With a stinging blue flash, the electric halberd tore right through the sternum of the faunus in front of him and continued on to skewer several soldiers further back in the White Fang's charging line.

Leon turned to face the last three soldiers in the initial vanguard, who continued to move toward him in spite of their comrades' horrific deaths. Leon sprinted toward the fifth faunus, who leveled a shotgun at him and fired a blast. The spray of pellets caught him in the right side of his torso and eviscerated a portion of the skin and muscle there. While this would normally be an incapacitating, if not fatal, wound, Leon was not in a normal state. The injured area glowed with bright blue aura and immediately began to heal. Meanwhile, Leon repaid the offending faunus with a swift upward cleave that split him in half vertically in a shower of blood and viscera.

The sixth and seventh faunus dashed toward him, one brandishing a mace and the other swirling a chain whip. Before they could get within fifteen feet of Leon, he thrust his left hand forward and shot a bolt of lightning at them. In the blink of an eye, the wicked bolt snaked through the air and through his foes. The two faunus soldiers collapsed, dead, in nightmarish spasms with sizzling holes near their hearts.

Only eleven seconds had passed since the exchange began.

It took Hartman a few more seconds to fully digest the destruction occurring on that field. Once he did, he brought out his scroll and made another call. "Owens, you copy?"

A brief moment of silence followed. Then, "I copy, Hartman. How're our boys faring out there? The external cameras were knocked out in the initial wave, so I'm sitting blind in here."

Hartman grimaced. "Well, doctor...let's just say that if we survive this shitstorm, the Burrow's gonna have quite a few new job openings. The White Fang brought more troops than we'd anticipated. A lot more."

The doctor's voice suddenly became much more solemn. "And what of Leon? Adrian? Are they still kicking?"

Hartman had to take a moment to breath. He knew Owens was especially fond of those two. "Sorry, doc...Adrian's down." He couldn't bring himself to give any details at that moment. It would only have made the news more painful.

Another moment passed without response. When Owens finally did, his voice seemed as composed as it ever was, at least on the surface. But Hartman had known him for many years, and he could hear the faint tone of grief slipping through. "I see. And since you didn't also mention Leon, may I assume he's still alive?"

Hartman looked back at the battlefield, at the savage beast of war that had once been Leon. And he wasn't entirely sure if there was a life for the boy after all the White Fang mongrels were put down...or if this surge of murderous power represented his death throes.

"That one's a bit harder to explain, doc. He's definitely alive...but I don't exactly know how much of Leon is still in there. You might wanna get out here and see for yourself."

This time the response was immediate. "On my way now. I won't lose another one." Then he severed the connection.

Another clap of thunder resounded around the battlefield, but this one didn't come from Leon. Looking to the sky, Hartman was surprised to see dark clouds gathering above the Burrow. _Odd, _thought Hartman. _Just minutes ago, there wasn't a single cloud in the sky._ And these clouds seemed to be flashing with much greater frequency than average storms around Vale. Hartman's unease grew, knowing this couldn't be mere coincidence.

As Leon faced the main force, which was now only about a dozen meters from him, Hartman could see a few of the White Fang trailing behind the rest, looking as if they suddenly decided they had somewhere else to be.

Before the faunus mob closed the gap, Leon brought his axe up above his head and gathered a large amount of electric power into its head. The concentration of lightning intensified for a few seconds, and then Leon smashed it into the ground. A vertical wave of lightning raced across the field toward the White Fang with enough power and heat to create a fissure several feet deep. Any faunus caught near the pulse was pierced by erratic arcs of lightning, though these were more powerful than the one that killed the earlier duo. Several faunus were thrown into the air by the force of the bolts, each sporting one or several sizzling burns. Those who were unfortunate enough to be charging in its direct path were instantly disintegrated.

It happened in a flash, quite literally, and when the lightning fizzled out six more faunus were dead and gone. That left twelve foot soldiers and Dillinger to face off against this lone berserker. Could this conglomeration of faunus weather the storm arrayed against them? Hartman doubted that thirteen was going to be their lucky number. In any case, he no longer wanted to be anywhere near the Ferox boy in his current state, so Hartman began to quickly backpedal toward the Burrow's entrance.

By now, all of the gunners in the White Fang's remaining forces were dead, leaving only close range foes for Leon to contend with. And he was more than capable of dealing with that, as he readily demonstrated when they finally engaged him. Or rather, when he engaged them.

A group of four believed that if they all took him on at once, they'd stand a better chance of delivering a killing blow. While Hartman mentally applauded their tactical thinking, something that seemed scarce in the "cannon fodder" section of any armed group, it would ultimately prove to be fruitless.

Leon threw a backhanded swing at one, caving in his skull while lightning arced from his fist into the exposed brain. As he did so, he swept his axe to the right and eviscerated another one's chest cavity, slicing through ribs and organs as if they were no more substantial than butter. Leon followed through with his first attack by twisting and hammering a sideways kick into the nose of the third attacker, snapping his neck and blasting him backward. The twist allowed him to narrowly dodge a sword thrust from the last of the four, and Leon responded by swinging his axe upward through her right shoulder. The faunus woman could only scream as blood gushed out of where her arm used to be while Leon gripped her neck with his other hand. As she continued to wail in pain and terror, Leon sent lightning coursing through her neck and all throughout her body, charging it with deadly power. Then he threw her electrified corpse toward the other nine faunus.

Dillinger could see that the corpse was more than just a scare tactic. "Get away from that body, NOW!"

Many were able to scatter, but three were too slow on the uptake. When the glowing corpse flew right above their position, Leon sent another bolt of lightning into it. That bolt seemed to "overload" the electricity already stored inside the corpse, and it exploded in a burst of yet more lightning that vaporized the three nearby faunus and blasted their ashes away.

Hartman had seen some disturbing things in his life, but never anything so gruesome as that. He wanted desperately to avert his eyes from the carnage, but somehow could not. Because of this, he didn't notice the arrival of Doctor Owens until he spoke. "By the powers above. That...that's Leon?"

He forced himself, with considerable effort, to face the doctor. "It's his body, alright. But like I said, I don't know how much of the boy we knew is still inside. Do you know what the hell is going on, doc?"

Owens thought for a few seconds. "I have a theory, yes. One that I can explain in depth later. But for now, know that if I'm correct...we might be able to bring his being back into focus."

This news astonished Hartman. After all the brutality Leon had exhibited, the thought of him returning to the hard but spirited boy he'd been seemed like a fantasy. "How so?"

The doctor's brows furrowed in concern. "Well, Hartman...it involves me getting close to him. Which will undoubtedly prove to be problematic."

Hartman didn't like where this was going. "Problematic? How so? He's clearly pissed, but we're still on his side."

But Owens immediately dashed his hopes of anything today being simple. "In his state, Hartman, it's highly unlikely he can distinguish between 'sides'. If we just stroll up to give him a pat on the back, we're liable to be given the same treatment as the White Fang."

Hartman stiffened at that bit of information. If the Ferox boy couldn't tell friend from foe, then when all of the White Fang were exterminated..."He'll come after us, then? If he doesn't snap out of it?"

Owens gulped, and nodded.

Hartman came to an instant decision. "In that case, doc...Leon's always been a loyal fighter, but now he's become a wild dog. And when a dog goes feral, you have to put him down."

Doctor Owens scowled, and was about to say something when they both heard a faint scraping sound behind Hartman, followed by a familiar brogue accent. "I don't bloody think so."

Hartman turned around and was met with the unpleasant sight of a pitch black arrow gleaming right in his face and a very discontented Silas behind it. "Adrian's _dead_, Hartman! First ye just stand there like a damned log, not lifting a _single _finger to save him, and now ye want to murder the only one who can avenge him?" The archer's face was unfamiliar at that moment, without even a trace of the boisterous man he'd always been before. "Well, I've lost enough friends today, mate."

Hartman was already stressing quite hard from the strain of that day, and having this whopping great arrow aimed right between his eyes nearly sent him over the edge. His gauntleted fists clenched, and were quite close to pounding the archer into dust.

But before an unnecessary skirmish erupted between the two, Owens piped up from behind the Pitmaster. "I couldn't agree more. Like you said, Hartman, we've lost many gladiators today. Meaning when the smoke clears and we limp back into our mountain, we'll be nearly defenseless. What's to stop the White Fang from sending more troops to finish what they started? We'll need every able body we can muster, especially one as powerful as Leon."

Hartman considered his logic as he turned his attention back to Leon. In the short time they'd been talking, the gladiator had slaughtered every faunus soldier except Dillinger. Leon and the Bull faced each other as Leon pulled his axe out of the chest of his last victim, rage burning in both of their eyes.

Then, like a flipped switch, the two powerhouses raced to engage each other. Surprisingly, Dillinger made the first move with a swift swipe of his longsword. Leon deflected the blow with his axe and swung back at him in a similar manner. The two exchanged blows for another half minute, which in itself was impressive. Nobody else who stood before the berserk Leon had lasted longer than a few seconds.

What's more, it seemed that Dillinger had some manner of unholy luck. After many strikes and parries, Leon delivered another titanic swing in an effort to cleave the Bull into halves. But the faunus blocked it with his own swing, and the battered greataxe, worn down by countless attacks that day, shattered before the polished longsword. As the sword moved through the axe, the blade tore at the flesh of Leon's right collarbone, releasing a small burst of electric blue aura. Dillinger pressed his advantage, spinning around and thrusting forward, driving his longsword into Leon's stomach.

The blow looked horrific, and Dillinger's bloodied mouth contorted into a wicked smile. It seemed that the Bull had just achieved a miraculous victory...until Leon's head shot up, revealing an even more monstrous smile on his face. Then his heart once again pulsed with light, and tendrils of lightning burst from Leon's penetrated stomach and snaked up the metal blade into Dillinger's arms.

Dillinger roared in agony and staggered backward, releasing the blade. Leon grasped its hilt and wrenched it out of his stomach, not even flinching as he did so. Then he walked up to Dillinger as the faunus tried to control his twitching arms. The Bull looked at the gladiator in terror, but was now powerless to stop him as the berserker drew back the longsword and delivered a downward swipe that amputated Dillinger's trunk-like legs at the knees. Dillinger now screamed, rather than roared, as his legless form collapsed on his back. Jets of crimson squirted out of his stump legs, soaking Leon's feet and ankles with blood. Leon wasted no time, however, and gave Dillinger a wound similar to his own by planting the blade in the faunus brute's stomach, pinning him to the ground.

As Dillinger continued to scream in a manner which betrayed his once-terrifying form, Leon knelt on his chest and grasped one of his horns in each hand. Then he sent a surge of aura up his arms, and some of the veins burst with lightning as he began to pull. Dillinger's screams were drowned out by Leon's roars of exertion as he executed the faunus battlemaster, tearing his head right off his shoulders by his horns. Geysers of blood erupted from the neck and splattered Leon's body as he lifted Dillinger's head high into the air, roaring in victory.

Hartman's eyes widened for a moment before he shook his head to regain his composure. And now that Leon was, hopefully, being kept busy scouring the battlefield for survivors to slaughter, his decision was clear: Leon's mind was completely gone. All that remained was a husk, electrically powered and programmed only to kill.

So Hartman suddenly dropped low and grabbed Nightfall, wrenching it out of Silas' hands and swinging it around to smack him upside the head. The stunned archer was flung to the ground as Owens yelped in astonishment.

Before the doctor could stammer out his protest, Hartman spoke. "You'll never get close to him. Neither of you. He'll slaughter you both, and then he'll come for the rest of us." He paused, then looked sternly at the doctor. "I completely agree with you, y'know. We've lost too many people today. And I'm not about to lose the rest to a mindless beast, even if that beast was once one of us. Leon must die." Now he turned to Silas, who was just beginning to stand again. "And if you get in my way, we'll be burying you right alongside him tomorrow."

While Hartman meant every word he said, and was sure that Silas knew it, he hoped that the archer might be frightened into submission, even if he hated Hartman for it. But as the Pitmaster felt the air around him begin to howl in anger, he knew it wasn't meant to be.

Hartman quickly shoved Doctor Owens out of harm's way, then ignited Demon Flare. Silas, who had pulled a spare crystal of wind Dust out of one of his pockets, used the winds he'd riled up to sweep himself out of range of the flames while simultaneously centering a small funnel around Nightfall. Hartman had been expecting a more direct attack, and the bow was swiped from his grasp by the swirling gale and returned to its owner.

Now the two stood before each other, both ready to fight to the death. Silas growled a taunt at Hartman, yelling to be heard over the raging winds. "C'mon, then! Get over 'ere and I'll blow out yer candles, ye twinkle-toed bastard!"

Hartman knew his duty. He'd made this choice before, to kill a few to save many. _I'm sorry, Silas. This is for the good of the Burrow._

Hartman was poised to strike, and only a second from doing so, when the gunshots rang out from his left. Both combatants turned their heads to see Lord Nilloc himself, surrounded by two of his elite guards, with a smoking handgun pointed skyward in his right hand. His left hand covered his left ear while his other ear was pressed to his shoulder, presenting the image of a small boy firing a gun for the first time.

Once he was sure he'd gotten their attention and Silas calmed the winds down, the pudgy lord began to yell desperately at Hartman. "What in the hell is going on here, Pitmaster!? When I told you to order your gladiators to stand down, that was an _order_, not a suggestion! So why am I seeing the entire White Fang occupation force gutted and strewn about the field!?"

Hartman extinguished Demon Flare, scowling to himself. He wasn't sure which would be worse: to falsely claim he had a reason to keep his men fighting, or to reveal that his men directly disobeyed him.

So he decided to say nothing for now, as Lord Nilloc would likely continue to bluster on whether he spoke or not. Which turned out to be entirely true. "You think I gave that command out of cowardice? I had a reason, a very _good_ reason! And that very good reason will likely spell doom for us all!"

Hartman held up a hand to quiet Nilloc, for fear of him fainting from lack of breath. "Whoa, Lord Nilloc. You gotta calm down. Sure, the White Fang _might_ come back for round two, but thanks to crazy Leon over there—"

"—which leads me to my _second_ problem—"

"—which can be explained later. Anyway, thanks to him, our immediate threat has been reduced to embers and various disembodied limbs. After we deal with him, we can recoup our losses inside the mountain and—"

Nilloc nearly went red in the face. "Except Leon doesn't present the only immediate threat, Hartman! And the White Fang isn't yet done fighting round friggin' one!"

Hartman, Silas, and Owens all stiffened. Nilloc saw the confusion in their eyes and proceeded to explain. "The White Fang is far more powerful than you seem to think. And right now, they have two things in abundance: manpower and incentive to take this mountain. The occupation force that cut our numbers down to a fraction was only half of what the White Fang is prepared to throw at us today."

He took a deep breath, and his voice was sewn with shame when he continued. "Which is why I ordered you to stand down, Hartman. One of their commanders contacted me with a warning and a proposal. The White Fang was on its way to take over the Bloody Burrow and convert it into their new secret headquarters. We could either fight and die defending it, or invite them in and continue our gladiator business with new management. I chose the latter, but now that we're responsible for so many casualties…"

The three took a few more seconds process this information. Then Silas spoke up, seemingly calmed down. "Then our only hope is to bring Leon back from his rage and pray fer mercy. It twists me gut three different ways just thinkin' about it, but we gotta play the hand we've been dealt."

Hartman immediately opened his mouth to reject his suggestion, but Nilloc seemed relieved that someone had the makings of a plan. "Right, um…Silo, was it? Sounds great. You three go do that, and we'll, um…give you support. Ranged support. From way back here. Right."

But the Pitmaster refused to be ignored in this matter. "Lord Nilloc, I do not believe that Leon can be 'brought back'. It would be much more of a surefire solution to kill—"

"WATCH YER BACK!"

Hartman barely had time to register Silas' sudden warning. He managed to turn halfway around before a blinding blue light assaulted his eyes and what felt like a warhammer assaulted his abdomen. But as he spun through the air, he could see through blurred vision that it was not, in fact, a hammer, but Leon's electrically charged fist.

In the six seconds it took Hartman to hit the ground, Leon had time to dash over to Nilloc's guards. The two began to raise their pikes, but before they could get into a proper fighting stance he delivered an uppercut to the left one's jaw and a spinning kick to the right one's temple. Both guards dropped like rocks, still alive but leaving Lord Nilloc completely open. The chubby man was so frightened that he couldn't even bring his shaking hand to lift his pistol in defense.

Luckily for him, he didn't need to. Silas twirled Dusk in the air and activated the crystals on the handguard to send a gust of wind his way, sweeping him off his feet and throwing him several meters away from Leon. Then Silas brought the gust back around to slam into Leon, not managing to get him airborne but pushing him closer to Silas and Owens.

Once the gust stopped, Leon looked around for the caster and locked his sparking eyes on Silas. Though the archer was doubtful that words could even breach his consciousness, he felt he had to try. "Leon, will you snap out of it ye stupid wanker!? We aren't yer enemy, dammit!"

But Silas' doubts were correct, and Leon stretched out his left arm to blast a bolt of lightning at him. Silas had been gathering another gale while he spoke, and used it dodge the bolt. Leon wasn't done, though, and sent another four toward him in quick succession. Silas managed to dodge them all, but the last one grazed his left forearm and left a sizzling burn.

Then Leon ceased the lightning bolts and started dashing toward the archer. Silas knew well enough to keep Leon at bay and sent his winds crashing into him. The berserker managed to push forward against the gale, slowly but steadily, until Silas strengthened it with yet more winds and sent the boy sailing away.

Leon landed several meters away, rolling and then immediately jumping to his feet. As the berserker glared wrathfully at the man who'd once been one of his closest friends, he lifted both arms into the air. Until that moment, Hartman had forgotten about the gathering storm clouds. Now the entire sky was devoid of sunlight, covered entirely in wispy grey but well lit by the incessant flashes of angry lightning. Hartman wasn't sure if Leon was commanding the storm or if his presence was so powerful that nature itself was drawn to him. He _was_ sure that the clouds couldn't mean anything good for them. Leon had to be stopped immediately before he destroyed the entire Burrow.

Hartman was now back on his feet, his abdomen pulsing with pain but his mind still clear. With one look at Silas, Hartman could see that all his wind casting and dodging was taking its toll. The archer was panting heavily, beads of sweat sliding down his face. Hartman came to a new decision: he couldn't fight both Leon and Silas. The crazed boy could only be taken down through teamwork, which the Pitmaster wouldn't get if he was trying to kill him. So he'd play along with the archer. For now.

Hartman positioned himself behind Leon and began charging at his back while the howling gale covered the sounds of his stomping. Just when the Pitmaster thought he'd made it to the berserker unnoticed, however, Leon's instincts kicked in and he whipped around, his left arm darting toward Hartman's face. Hartman managed to swing his head to the right, enough to avoid direct contact, but a tiny bolt of lightning arced from Leon's fist and zapped his cheek. Hartman countered by slamming his armored elbow into Leon's forehead. Leon's head snapped back and he stumbled for a moment. Hartman took the opportunity to throw a backhanded swing to Leon's stomach, taking care that the spiked gauntlets didn't puncture his abdomen as he was launched backward.

Hartman had hopefully prevented Leon from doing whatever it was he'd been about to do with the storm. As expected, though, Leon didn't stay down for more than a second. The berserker ran toward him again with blinding speed and jumped upward, poised to strike Hartman like the lightning he wielded. But before the attack could connect, another gust of wind threw him back to the ground. Silently thanking Silas, Hartman embedded his heavy boot into Leon's chest as he tried to regain his feet, knocking him on his back.

Hartman quickly threw himself on top of Leon, grasping the boy's wrists in his armored hands. Remembering that Leon could also deliver a very painful kick, Hartman also pressed his legs against Leon's. It was taking all of the Pitmaster's strength, mixed with adrenaline and intense desperation, but Hartman was keeping Leon pinned. The berserker definitely was not happy about it, though, and began to erupt lightning from all over his body, sending countless jolts into the large man above him.

Hartman gritted his teeth and growled in pain as the bolts impacted him. His aura would hold for a moment…but not much longer. "OWENS! GET OVER HERE AND DO YOUR THING BEFORE I GET ROASTED INSIDE AND OUT!"

Luckily, the doctor seemed to understand what Hartman had in mind and was already running toward them. But every second Hartman had Leon pinned seemed to enrage the gladiator even more. In addition to the unrelenting electric assault, Hartman suddenly found the berserker beginning to overpower him. Leon's arms were slowly but surely inching off the ground as he roared furiously. Hartman was convinced that his gambit was about to fail when some force slammed into his back and pushed them both back into the ground. By now he was familiar with the wild howl of Silas' winds. Turning his head, Hartman saw that Silas had both scimitars pointed skyward, conjuring a cyclone above them and sending it spiraling into them. The winds were terribly strong, preventing Leon from pushing up and assisting Hartman in pushing down.

Leon's lightning continued to course over Hartman as Owens stumbled his last few steps through the cyclone. The Pitmaster's aura felt like a cracking dam about to be overcome by a flood. Owens was gathering emerald energy between his hands in some form of healing aura. At last, the doctor made it to them and knelt above Leon's head.

As Owens gathered the last bit of energy he needed, the electricity stopped emanating from Leon. Hartman breathed a sigh of relief, but it was short-lived. Hartman and Owens heard a crackling sound above their heads, something louder than Silas' cyclone. Looking upward, the two of them saw all of the lightning in the storm being centered at a single point right above Leon. Hartman's heart sank. The lightning bolt that would come out of that focal point would undoubtedly be powerful enough to vaporize the both of them.

Hartman looked once more at Owens and yelled, "If this doesn't work, doc, no amount of healing aura will save our sorry skins!"

Owens smirked and replied, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Captain Obvious. I find your lack of faith quite re_volt_ing!"

Hartman could only frown at him. "Seriously!? You're going out on _that_!?"

Without another word, Owens pressed his hands on either side of Leon's head and sent his aura coursing through his mind. The bright blue glow in the gladiator's eyes was replaced by green, and Owens' emerald aura began to travel down his veins and overcome the electricity. A few seconds later, and the only place still powered by lightning was his heart. The vital organ was pumping faster than a machinegun could fire, the final bastion of rage that resisted Owens with all it had. The lightning above them was still gathering, and looked like it would atomize them any second.

Hartman decided to end this, one way or another. "Screw it," he said to himself, and slammed his forehead into Leon's.

Then a blast of thunder detonated above them, and everything went white.


	8. Aftershocks

**RWBY: ****Ascendant Spark**

Chapter 8 — Aftershocks

Time does not heal all wounds. That was one of the first things Dr. Owens had learned when he'd begun practicing the healing arts, and never before had it been more apparent.

The trauma ward was overflowing with the wounded, the dying, and the broken. As the good doctor paced briskly through the room, he wished once again that Lord Nilloc had approved his request to replace the dark red stone with something more sterile, like some lovely white tile. It would certainly help him distinguish the rock from the blood, which was coating the floor in menacing crimson pools. Owens had already lost count of how many times he'd nearly slipped in it while darting from patient to patient.

The man on his right had his left leg bent backward at an unnatural angle and his right hand had nearly been crushed flat. Owens reached into his satchel and pulled out a small green strip of plastic and wrapped it around the patient's gurney. The green strip represented a stable patient, as his injuries were painful but not life-threatening and could be treated later. On his left, however, a heavily-built faunus woman with tiger's ears and fangs had been absolutely perforated with Dust rounds. There were several bullet wounds in her torso and her left arm was barely hanging on by a few tendons. Owens bowed his head as he reached back into his satchel and grabbed a similar plastic strip, this one red. He reluctantly tied this one around her gurney, signifying that her wounds were too severe to heal. Before he moved on, Owens placed his hand upon her forehead and sent down a little pulse of his aura. The agonized look in her eyes faded away. The doctor moved on to the next patient, knowing that she would die painlessly within a few more minutes.

Owens went back and forth like this for several hours, as there were very few other members of the Burrow's medical staff and none of them had the abilities he had. What grated on the doctor's nerves was that the vast majority of these patients were not gladiators; most of them came from the ranks of the White Fang. Out of the three dozen gladiators that had marched out of the tunnels the day before, half were still lying dead out in the field, and all but seven of the survivors were scattered in either the trauma ward or the mental recovery ward. Owens was not the typical "save them all" kind of doctor, and if it were up to him, he'd let the murdering bastards rot. But since they'd won yesterday's little war, the Burrow had been forced to take in their enemy's wounded.

Of course, it had been up to him in the end. Nobody within many, many miles of this place could fix a body the way he could, and he knew it. If the White Fang wanted him to heal the wannabe soldiers who'd butchered his friends, they'd need more incentive than a death threat to make him lift a finger.

Now, as the stressed and fatigued Doctor Owens began to walk shakily through the rough red hallway toward the mental recovery room, those tense moments ran through his mind once more…

* * *

_The doctor knew he'd only been out of it for a minute or so, but his ears were still ringing and his vision was still a white blur. He could feel someone shaking him, but he couldn't even begin to tell who it was. After another two minutes or so, though, his head stopped spinning enough for him to see that it was Silas. The man looked like he was on the verge of passing out, an obvious side effect of the massive amount of aura he'd had to channel during the battle. His shoulder-length auburn hair and beard were soaked with sweat, mud and a few specks of blood. _

_ The incessant ring continued to permeate his ears for a few more moments before it subsided enough for Owens to hear what the archer was saying. "Ey, doc…doc? C'mon, doc, ye gotta get yer head back on straight. Their bloody reinforcements are closin' in."_

_ Silas extended his hand and helped him, shakily, to his feet. The first thing he did was look around him for Leon and Hartman. He found them both, lying prone a few feet away. Hartman had gotten hit by the skyborn bolt, but he was still intact. Well-cooked, perhaps, but not scattered into various atoms. The armor of his right arm was completely burned off, including the right gauntlet of Devil's Handshake, and the skin underneath was smoldering with third degree burns. A serious wound, to be sure, but manageable. Leon was another matter entirely. The boy was an absolute mess. His combat gear, minimal as it was, was in tatters, and through its remains Owens could see wounds from head to toe. Owens could still sense his aura, but it was erratic, in some kind of internal flux. But for now, he was unconscious and likely would be for a long time. _

_ As for himself, Owens saw that his own hands had been slightly roasted by the bolt, but were quickly being healed by his aura. The amount of electricity that Leon had gathered in that cloud should have, as he'd guessed, vaporized them. But, as far as Owens could tell, his healing aura had already partly cleared Leon's mind in the split second before the bolt was cast, and a portion of the electricity had been dissipated to nonlethal levels. If he'd started just a second later, or had faltered the slightest amount in his healing…_

_Owens shook his head again. He didn't want to dwell any longer on just how close he'd come to being completely erased from existence. Luckily or unluckily, he soon found himself faced with another issue to capture his attention as the reinforcements Silas had mentioned finally showed up._

_It took Owens a moment to distinguish the buzzing in his head from the motorized whine of incoming Bullhead gunships. Apparently, they weren't risking another forest approach, which meant these reinforcements were likely under the impression that there could still be resistance from the Burrow. He couldn't blame them there, as Leon had ensured that not a single soldier survived to tell them otherwise._

_Owens furrowed his brow at a particular gunship which carried the one exception. Roman Torchwick was riding back next to a small faunus, who seemed to be wearing glasses over his mask in an almost comical way. And as his gunship drew closer, the doctor could tell that Torchwick was returning his glare with a look of contempt. A faint wisp of smoke trailed in the air from the smoldering tip of a cigar. The instant the gunships landed, the White Fang troops began pouring out and taking formation as Torchwick started sauntering toward them. More specifically, Owens realized, toward Leon's still form. _

_Silas immediately stepped in front of Leon, prompting Torchwick to tighten his grip on Melodic Cudgel. Even in his semi-dazed state, Owens had no trouble seeing that the criminal would absolutely love to blast the both of them off the face of Remnant. He quickly moved in front of Silas, which finally prompted Torchwick to halt and raise an eyebrow._

"_Okaaaay...now you're in my way." Roman looked amused now. "So, can you give me a single reason I shouldn't add you to ash pile I'm about to create?"_

_He said it so casually, it actually made Owens pause for a moment before speaking up. "Well, yes, actually. I'm a doctor. The most skilled doctor outside the four kingdoms. Probably inside, too. And you…" Owens made a sweeping gesture at the sprawling mass of White Fang bodies. "…have quite the problem. I could surely help alleviate this issue of yours if—" _

_The doctor was interrupted by Melodic Cudgel as it suddenly crashed into his left cheek and knocked him to the ground. A string of expletives flew from Silas as he stumbled forward to try and protect Owens. But he was stopped short as he received a similar blow from Roman and joined the doctor in the dirt. _

"_Yeah…let me stop you right there, doc." Torchwick leaned forward on his cane, looking down at the pair with a shit-eating grin. "I'm not in the mood, nor are you in a position, for negotiation. That bloodthirsty monstrosity over there is nothing but a menace. To me, to you, and to everyone around him. And that's coming from me, for God's sake. A man who has ended more lives than he really cares to remember. So please, do us all a favor and step aside." _

_Silas was about to say something—likely a scathing insult—but Owens shushed him before the words left his throat. "Roman…I realize the gravity of what he's done. But I ask that you look past your…overwhelming superiority…to see the bigger picture." The doctor had hoped a bit of flattery might make the criminal loosen up, but at this point he looked more bored than ever. Owens decided to get to the point. "Not all of your troops are dead. There are many men and women lying out there right now with potentially fatal wounds. And we're a long, long way from any hospital." The doctor straightened up and locked eyes with the criminal. "I can heal them. Most of them, anyway. But I won't spare a single ounce of my aura to help them if you execute any more of my friends. My price is the lives of Leon and Silas. Take it or leave it."_

_Torchwick tapped his finger on his chin for a moment, as if truly considering his proposal. But those feeble hopes were dashed when he removed the cigar from his mouth, stepped closer to Owens and blew a ring of smoke into his face. "Well, doc...I think I'm gonna have to leave it." Then the criminal pressed the still-burning stogie into the doctor's right cheek. Owens groaned as the cigar scalded his skin with a sizzling hiss. Silas growled and tried to stand, but the extreme beatings he'd taken had utterly sapped his strength and he fell back to his knees._

_After a few agonizing seconds, Torchwick finally dropped his cigar. As Owens continued to breathe through clenched teeth, Roman stepped backward and smirked at his victim's helplessness. Owens, however, was done being tormented like the toy of some demented child. The doctor found his own footing again, pressed his middle finger to the burn scar and channeled a bit of his healing aura into the wound. Within seconds, his cheek was good as new._

_Torchwick simply raised an eyebrow and snickered. "Going out with sass, huh? I can respect that." Roman twirled his can around his finger before levelling it at the battered trio. "I almost feel sorry for you, y'know? You all drew the short straw in life, and even though you gave it your best shot, in the end it all meant squat. And guess what? When you're all nothing but embers in the wind, nobody will remember you. Even I'll forget what an irritation you guys were soon enough. It'll be like you never even existed. And to that end…" Melodic Cudgel's sight snapped open once more. "…I'm gonna pay you back for what that little blue bastard did to my army." _

_Owens understood that nothing he could say would sway this madman, but the doctor refused to back down. He would rather be blown to bits right then and there than see any more of his friends be slaughtered. Fortunately for him, it didn't have to come to that._

"_Actually, Roman, these freedom fighters were never, at any point, 'your army'." This came from a new, and timely, arrival. The speaker, another faunus with smaller bull horns, definitely stood out from the rank-and-file soldiers with his black coat, bright red hair and detailed, angular mask. "And to be honest, I think the good doctor makes a fair point. We've already won this battle, even if it cost us far more than we'd projected." _

_Torchwick's shoulders slumped as he lowered his cane. Then he rolled his eyes at the faunus. "Oh, marvelous. You're here…yes, Adam. Exactly! And do you know why it cost us so much? Because of him!" He thrust his cane at Leon. "What if he wakes up and decides he isn't done fighting, hmm?"_

"_Quiet, fool!" Adam spoke with venom in his voice, though his demeanor remained steady. "The reason so many of our brothers and sisters now lie dead is because of your little 'shock and awe' scheme. Which, I might add, you enacted without my approval. We'd already made a prior agreement with the ruler of this rock for a bloodless takeover, but you decided you wanted to play God and start your own war!"_

_But Torchwick wasn't ready to stand down just yet. "We were taking over a den of gladiators, you idiot! People who spend literally every single day of their lives fighting and killing! Did you honestly believe you could suddenly waltz in and lay claim to their arena, and that they wouldn't eventually push us out just to nurse their overinflated sense of pride? At least now we've proven that we mean business—"_

"_You've proven nothing except that we can be killed even more easily than them!" Adam began inching closer and closer to Torchwick, until his mask was mere inches from Roman's darting eyes. When he spoke again, his voice grew menacingly quieter. "I've had enough of your self-absorbed opinions. I've had enough of your arrogant voice. I've had enough of you. The only crime these two have committed is defending their home. We will not execute them for that."_

_But Roman had one last point to get across. He lowered his voice to match Adam's. "Taurus…I'm sure you saw Dillinger's remains as you flew in. Brutal, isn't it? And I think you know who did it." He stuck a finger in Leon's direction. "It was him. That maniac mangled your brother and tore his head right off his shoulders. And you want to let him live?"_

_Adam clenched his fists hard, one of them wrapping around the hilt of his sheathed sword. The mask of calm he'd been carefully fostering cracked a bit as he turned his head to Torchwick and allowed his mouth to turn into a furious grimace. "Oh, I know who killed him, Roman. Believe me, I know." Torchwick took a step back as Adam continued. "It was the man who exploited his desire for glory to enlist him in this ill-conceived, unnecessary assault. And I will never forget that."_

_Now Adam turned to Owens. "I'll agree to your terms. But know this: if these soldiers do not adequately recover under your care, you will find that I am very liable to change my mind." _

_Relief flooded over the doctor as Torchwick lowered his head a little and Adam turned and began to walk toward the Burrow. But just as the black-coated faunus showed his back, Roman's head whipped up again, his face contorted into a look of pure hatred for everyone around him. Owens caught a whisper from him, "Oh, to hell with you all." Time seemed to slow for the doctor as the criminal lifted Melodic Cudgel again and took aim at the three of them. _

_And before a single reactionary thought could pass through his startled mind, a raucous crack erupted and Owens' vision went dark._

_It took his weary mind a few seconds to realize that he wasn't dead or even hurt, but that he'd only clamped his eyes shut in panic. Upon reopening them, he saw Torchwick's eyes wide open and his mouth slightly agape. Adam had the bright red blade of a katana pressed against his jugular. Melodic Cudgel was now split into halves, with Roman holding the shortened stub of his weapon as a little trail of fire Dust slowly poured out onto the dirt._

_Adam's mouth was set in a grim line, but steadily turned into a snarl as he began to speak. "If only it were up to me, Torchwick…I would polish this blade with your neck." He emphasized his point by giving the criminal a slight, surgical cut on a non-vital part of his neck. Torchwick stiffened in response, but to his credit resisted the urge to wince in pain. "But fortune favors you, much to the chagrin of everyone who knows you. It is not my place to make such a call. But I will be having words with your…employer. She will decide your fate."_

_At this, Adam finally sheathed his blade and made a hand gesture to a few nearby troops. Two faunus grabbed Torchwick's arms while a third thrust an assault rifle into his back, roughly shoving him forward. The small, bespectacled faunus who'd ridden in with Torchwick quickly scooped up the other half of Melodic Cudgel and hurried after the criminal. The last look Owens saw on Roman's face was one akin to the pale, fearful look he'd seen on many dying men. _

_Just who was this mysterious woman who wielded enough power to cow such an anarchic mobster? _

_Adam, Torchwick and about half of the reinforcements boarded their gunships and before long were fading into the distant skies. No doubt they were on their way to ruin somebody else's day._

_Owens finally released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The doctor turned around, pulled Silas' arm over his shoulder and helped him to his feet. The two exchanged tired smiles as a few of the Burrow's survivors hoisted the bodies of the wounded and trudged back into their mountain. Their home._

* * *

"Doctor? Hello? Are you still with us, sir?"

Owens shook himself out of his recollective trance as one of his nurses finally managed to regain his attention. "Oh, damn…yes, yes, I'm good. Apologies. Uh…what was it you wanted?"

This nurse was stationed in the mental recovery ward, as indicated by the fact that her white uniform wasn't slathered in blood and viscera. "Doctor, there's been a development with the blue-haired boy. Nothing major, but we detected a small spike in brain activity. He's still comatose, but we estimate he will awaken again in about two months, barring any unforeseen incidents."

Owens nodded at her. "Thank you, nurse. Was there anything else?"

The nurse thought for a moment. "Ah, yes. Pitmaster Hartman woke up for a few seconds. He immediately began to panic hysterically, thrashing everything within reach while screaming quite loudly, so we had to put him back under sedation. You might want to keep an eye out for him, as your presence might prevent such an occurrence from happening again when he awakens next."

"I'll make sure to do that." He then added, under his breath, "If I ever make it out of that damned trauma ward…"

The nurse gave him a concerned look. "Sir…if I may, you don't look much better than your patients. You won't be able to help anyone if you work _yourself_ to death."

Owens waved her off. "I appreciate the sentiment, nurse. But I've got a responsibility to these people, and I have to see it through. Keep up the good work."

She nodded hesitantly, turned on her heels and walked back into the mental recovery ward. As soon as she was out of sight, Owens slumped against the wall to his right.

Reaching into his satchel, he pulled out a small mirror and saw that the nurse was entirely correct; he looked as disheveled as he felt. His hair, normally combed aside in a handsomely clean manner, was sticking out in every which way. Running his other hand through it, he found it was extremely sticky. It didn't take a detective to figure out what it was, and the fact that his hand came back coated in red served only as a confirmation. His once-glittering jade eyes were completely bloodshot and had bags beneath bags hanging under them. The doctor didn't have to remove his surgical mask to see what his mouth looked like. It was dry, his lips were cracked, and he could feel the defeated frown on it for the last several hours. And try as he might, he couldn't seem to change it.

Owens stared at the shell he'd become for a few more minutes before snapping out of it. Hastily placing the mirror back in his satchel, the doctor took a few deep breaths and forced himself back into the trauma ward for four more hours of painstaking doctoring.

* * *

Finally, after an entire day and night of stabilizing everyone he possibly could, Owens was satisfied with his progress. He'd only had to give the red strip to five patients, and the rest were no longer in critical condition. A few with minor injuries had even been fixed up by the nursing staff and were on the move again.

Obviously, his work was far from over. But the worst was behind them, and now was the time for Owens to allow himself a hot shower and a long nap.

It was currently 5 o'clock in the morning, so most everyone else was still asleep and the showers were empty. The steamy water pouring over his hair and skin provided an immediate relief. The doctor couldn't remember the last time anything had felt quite so…refreshing. The blood and grime was falling off his body in clumps. Before long, Owens felt noticeably lighter as the last of it was cleansed.

He didn't want to leave quite yet, however. He decided to let the water rinse over him for a while longer, enjoying the feeling while he could. But as he had nothing else to do in there, he couldn't hold back the thoughts. The memories. The guilt.

Owens knew it was his fault. Leon's berserking, his current state. His fault.

Of course, he couldn't have possibly known all those years ago what might happen. Within all of recorded medical history, nobody had ever tried to do what he had done. So why had he done it, then? Knowing absolutely nothing about the procedure or its side effects or if it would even work at all? He told himself it was because he'd had no other choice. Leon would have died on that red stone slab if he hadn't.

The three days Leon had been sprawled on his operating table hadn't gone as smoothly as Owens might have led him to believe. Halfway through his second day unconscious, the young boy's aura had begun to rapidly fail. The immense physical and psychological trauma he'd undergone in his home had been proving too much for a thirteen-year-old to cope with, physically and mentally. His body was trying to die. And almost every case the doctor had reviewed stated that these symptoms were followed shortly by the body getting its wish.

Owens had little time to think things through, but he'd been determined to save Leon. To let him live out some sort of life in his new surroundings after his old one had been stolen from him. To help him defy an unfair fate. And looking around the operating room, an idea suddenly took root in his mind. He did have very little time…but quite a lot of Dust.

The practice of bodily infusion of Dust was outdated, even archaic. But Owens had been doing a bit of research on the subject in the hopes of finding medical applications for it. He did have a few hypotheses for procedures, but he hadn't even begun testing it yet. All of those doubts were moot, however, as Dust infusion was the only hope Leon had left.

So he hastily ran around the room gathering as much lightning Dust as he could. The procedure he planned to try with Leon was centered around the idea that the infusion of lightning Dust into a body with dwindling aura could act in a similar manner to a defibrillator, forcefully injecting energy into his body and soul to keep it alive. Of course, the infusion alone couldn't accomplish such a task. But if the Dust was combined with Owens' healing semblance, it might just prove fruitful.

As it turned out, he'd been correct. Infusing the Dust into Leon's heart allowed it to be quickly transported to the rest of his body through his bloodstream, and following up with a steady stream of his own healing aura had caused the Dust to not only provide lifesaving energy to Leon's aura and nervous system, but for it to remain a permanent aspect of Leon's physiological structure.

No apparent side effects had been observed, neither in the days after the infusion nor in the years to follow. Not until Leon charged out onto that ill-fated battlefield and suffered an equally traumatic experience had there been any indication that the infusion had any negative repercussions. But those repercussions had turned out to be severe, indeed.

As best he could figure, Leon's body reacted to its imminent demise with his well-known adrenaline, but this time it was compounded by his soul lashing out in fury against his attackers. This combination activated the lightning Dust that had lain dormant in his body for years, imbuing him with immense power and incredible regeneration, possibly due to Owens' aura. But great power always carries a great price: Leon's beaten and fractured soul had been overwhelmed by it, causing him to lose control of his body, mind and aura. Subsequently, his mindless body converted Leon's aura from a shield to a source of pure destructive ability. Once Hartman and Silas had Leon pinned, the doctor enacted his idea of simultaneously healing Leon's mind while cleansing the excess power from his body by deactivating the Dust in his system.

While most everybody left in the Burrow hailed Owens as a hero, he knew that as a result of his decision all those years ago, Silas, Hartman, himself and possibly every other Burrow denizen had nearly been slaughtered by one of their own. A chilling thought, to be sure. But at least he could take comfort in the fact that the same decision had brought about a fitting end to most of the animals who initiated the entire catastrophe.

Owens also recalled one more side effect of Leon's procedure, one that hadn't become relevant until after the cease-fire. And while it had been easy enough to treat in the Burrow, it could have disastrous effects for Leon in the future if they didn't keep careful tabs on it...

Owens shook his head again, flinging drops of water onto the walls. These were the thoughts that had been running through his mind nonstop ever since the battle officially came to an end. And he wasn't sure when they would ever slide back into obscure memory, if ever. For now, though, he was too tired to think about anything any further. So he turned off the blissful water, dried himself with one of the few clean towels remaining in the entire Burrow, and shuffled back into his room. Finally collapsing in his cot, it took only seconds for the doctor to find sleep.

Unsurprisingly, he had nightmares of the battle.

* * *

A few days later, the tension was finally dying down. All survivors of the Afternoon War, as it was now being called, were awake and walking off the last of their wounds. Any White Fang fighters who were permanently incapacitated and therefore unable to fight were shipped out of the Burrow and replaced by a new batch of gun-toting extremists. As it happened, there were no gladiators with any such injuries. Either they moved about their old routines with all limbs intact, or they would never move again.

With one notable exception, of course. Leon still had not awoken. His body was sound, the infused Dust was completely dormant, and even his aura had stabilized itself with some assistance from the doctor. The medical staff was unanimous in their belief that Leon would eventually break free of his coma. The only questions were when, and what state he would be in. Maybe he'd grown strong enough during his years in the Burrow to mentally withstand this grievous turn of events, but maybe he hadn't. Only time would tell.

Hartman had awoken again on the end of the second day. Luckily, Owens and Silas had both been in the room to stop the Pitmaster from pummeling Leon into pulp. Once he had been calmed again, the two were able to convince him that the threat was gone and Leon was under control. Hartman did relent, but only on the condition that no less than three armed guards stood watch outside the mental recovery ward at all times.

Once Hartman was up again, his lightning burns having already been healed, the Burrow dwellers and White Fang gathered once more on the battlefield to bury their dead. Without any spoken command, the two groups separated their grave sites, and the bad blood that still ran between them saw nobody complaining about this.

Perhaps life in the Burrow would have slowly edged back into normalcy, or at least what passed for it inside the red mountain. The gladiators would resume their business under new management whilst the White Fang would start to launch their criminal, or "revolutionary", operations from within their new hidden fortress. Eventually, the two groups might have merged into one.

All that might have happened, if not for a few more twists life had in store.

* * *

"Who the hell did we piss off to get this posting? I'm pretty sure I will actually die if I stay out here a minute longer," whined the White Fang soldier known as Masker. As he groaned, his raccoon tail swayed side to side in an irritated motion.

His watch partner, Jack, held his palm on his mask in exasperation. "Oh, is that right, Masker? Because that's the _same_ thing you said a minute ago! And five minutes ago! And an _hour _ago! Yet here you are, still alive and still moaning about the heat, or the boredom, or how you 'swear' you keep seeing the bodies of the dead crawl out of the graveyards! And my wonderful towering ears make sure I hear _every damn word of it_." Jack's rabbit ears twitched to emphasize his point.

Jack and Masker had drawn the short straws in their unit and were currently assigned to stand sentry at the entrance to this blasted hole. Masker was well aware of how annoying his repetitive whingeing was, and of how Jack's left finger had steadily been creeping closer to the trigger of his sniper rifle. But he really didn't care, as these bouts were the only thing keeping him sane. "Well, it _is _really hot out, man! It's like ninety degrees and, naturally, there's not a cloud around for miles. And by the way, how is that even possible? Didn't that freak literally call in a huge thunderstorm or something during the battle a few days ago? Where did those clouds go?"

Masker was expecting a response, but Jack refused to give him one purely out of spite. Luckily, Jack didn't have to hear Masker continue his tirade as the perfect distraction arrived from the tattered edge of the forest.

"Hello, there…what might you be?" Jack hefted his rifle and observed the thing that had crawled onto the field. Jack immediately recognized it as a beowolf, hungrily sniffing around the graveyards. "Hehehe…_jack_pot."

Jack poised the stock of his rifle against his left shoulder and began to adjust the scope. He hadn't had the opportunity to fire it at a live target for a few months now, and was preparing to find out if he'd become rusty when Masker suddenly reached over and pushed the rifle's barrel downward. When Jack gave him a near-murderous look, Masker responded in a child-like voice. "C'mon, man! You gotta let me have this! If you do, I-I-I swear you won't hear another word out of me today! Promise!"

Jack was didn't believe a word he was saying, and wanted nothing more than to tell Masker to shut up and shove off. But Jack realized that if he didn't let the little scrub shoot the beowolf, he would certainly bitch him out harder and louder than ever for the remainder of their watch.

So he relented with an annoyed sigh, and Masker eagerly brought his own rifle up. He lined up his own scope—which was coated in dirt because he never bothered to clean it—with the eyehole of his namesake mask. His mask was noteworthy because its wearer had long ago painted several curvy red lines on it with all the skill of a blind chimpanzee with arthritis, and he refused to scrub it off because, as he put it, "It was a tribute to the White Fang's greatest hero." He treasured that mask like he would a family heirloom, and his unit gave him a nickname to fit. That, and because of his tail.

Masker took aim at the beowolf, steadied himself for a second, and pulled the trigger in a resounding blast. And, almost predictably, it was a fantastic miss. The shot trailed far off to the beast's right, further splintering a tree several meters behind it. The creature simply reared its head, looking around in confusion.

Masker swore out loud as his partner snickered beside him. Determined to put this thing down, Masker aimed at it once again. He hastily sent another round its way, and promptly missed again as the bullet landed in a spray of dirt right in front of the beowolf. The monster responded by howling angrily into the steady breeze.

Masker swore again and was preparing to line up one more shot when a _CRACK_ rang out from his right. The beowolf's cry was abruptly cut off as its head exploded like a bright, red grape. Immediately, the creature began to disintegrate into shadowy dust. Masker turned to face Jack, whose rifle barrel was smoking as he gave a satisfied smirk.

Masker simply lowered his rifle and glared at his partner, whose smirk began to widen. Then, "You know I hate you, right?"

Jack allowed himself to snicker at Masker's immense irritation. Jack knew he'd pay for it later, but Masker's facial expression alone was definitely worth it. Or, at least, the half of it below his mask. "What? I was, uh…hehehe…afraid you'd attract more Grimm if you, uh, kept missing. So I gave you a little help."

Masker immediately took the bait, now visibly fuming. "I did _not_ need your help, Jackass! I totally would have had it on my next shot!"

_Jackass, huh?_ Jack thought amusedly to himself. _Totally haven't heard THAT one before._ "C'mon, Masker. I was, uh, thinking of the White Fang as a whole with my actions. Protecting them from the dangers lurking in the woods." Jack stood tall and pumped his fist against his heart in a mocking military salute.

But Masker was no longer in the mood. "Oh, will you just shut up? I know that you damn well remember the twenty hours we all spent in the forest clearing out every single monster in a three-kilometer radius! For the first time I can remember, you were complaining just as much as I was!"

Not falling for his partner's obvious attempt to change the subject, Jack continued with his dutiful façade. "Ah, but the Grimm are a tricksy bunch of buggers. We never know when they could reappear right out of the very shadows, so we must be ever vigilant. You should be following my shining example, you know." Then, quietly but loud enough for Masker to hear, "Maybe if you did, you'd be able to actually hit something for once in your life."

That hit a nerve. The veins in Masker's neck were bulging almost out of his skin, and his teeth were grinding hard enough to crunch steel. "Alright, listen here you hoity-toity little—"

Another furious howl intruded upon their conversation, and their little quarrel was squelched in a terrifying instant as they turned toward the offending creature. An alpha beowolf, standing several meters tall on its hind legs, bone plates wrapping around its shadowy body like armor, claws already dripping crimson from some unknowable source. Eyes aglow with unholy light the same color as the blood.

And behind it, an entire horde of Grimm, large enough to completely obscure all vision of the forest.

As the alpha beowolf finished its howl, the rest of the monsters erupted into their own bloodcurdling calls. Already the petrified minds of the two hapless faunus watchmen were beginning to snap under the ghoulish auditory assault, the ravenous roars of the beasts carried now by the winds of impending doom.

Masker was the first to rediscover his voice, and opted to finish his previous sentence. "…son of a bitch."

As the severity of the situation began to hit home, Jack began to stutter. "H-how? Where? W-why? WHAT? We c-c-cleared this place out! Where the actual hell d-did these bastards crawl from?"

Masker didn't have an answer to that question, as only one thought was running through his mind. And it wasn't about the wet sensation running down his trousers. "Dude…what are we gonna do? How are we gonna get out of this mess?"

Just then, their radio began to warble as the operator within the Burrow attempted to send up an inquiry. "_Zzzzzt_…Sentries, do you copy? Our motion sensors are picking…_Zzzzzt_…odd seismic activity around the field. We are currently reconfiguring our external cameras…_Zzzzzt_…attain a visual. What can you guys see up there? Over…_Zzzzzt_."

And the instant the operator ended his last sentence, the alpha beowolf planted all four limbs in the dirt and darted forward, sprinting toward them at an alarming rate. The horde followed seconds after, trampling the graveyard in a mad dash. The ground shook more violently than any earthquake as the hideous congregation of ursae, boarbatusks, creeps, lesser beowolves, and other, larger Grimm prepared for their feast.

Jack and Masker looked sideways at each other, started screaming very loudly, and discharged their rifles in a panic of wild shots. The radio picked up every sound, transmitting back to the Burrow's Command and Control center. Further inquiries from the interior were completely muffled as the horde drew closer and closer to the entrance.

Neither of the watchmen missed a single shot, despite the fact that they were too hysterical to actually aim. The concentration of Grimm was so thick that it was impossible to miss, and several creatures fell to the Dust rounds. But every one they dropped was immediately flattened into mist by frenzied feet and replaced by two more creatures.

Within a minute, the horde was bounding over and through the sentries' lazily constructed sandbag barricade. The alpha beowolf was the first to reach them, causing both to turn their rifles to bear on the beast. A damning _click_ from Masker's rifle told him that he'd run out of ammo, and Jack's remaining rounds were barely even scratching the towering monstrosity. The alpha batted the rifle out of the faunus' hands with its left arm and grabbed Jack around his waist with the other, lifting him off the ground as if he were no more substantial than an actual rabbit.

As Masker looked on in frozen dread, the alpha dug its claws through Jack's thin armor and into the flesh of his stomach and lower back. Jack struggled and yelled all he could, but only succeeded in driving the beast's claws deeper and deeper. Just when Jack's screams reached their loudest point, the alpha growled and wrapped its left paw under his arms, twisted, and pulled. Jack's body was torn in half with a sickeningly wet noise. His agonized cries died down over a short period of a few seconds as some of his internal organs fell out of the bottom of his torso and slopped over the dirt alongside a shower of blood.

Masker garnered the strength to turn away and run as the alpha wasted no further time in devouring its victim, starting with Jack's head. The entrance was only meters away. If he could just hit the opening switch and make it inside, he could close the blast doors again and be safe. But he could feel the rabid breath of the Grimm on his back, drawing nearer with every step. The switch was almost within reach now…

There! He had it! His fingers threw down the switch and the doors parted with a loud _hiss_. Now he just had to make it a few more strides to the inner switch and he was home free…

Of course, Masker didn't get much farther as a boarbatusk trundled into him at high speed from the left. The faunus felt his elbow snap like a twig before he flew into the red rock wall of the mountain. The failed sentry now lay slumped against the rounded wall of the entrance tunnel, which was still splattered with blood from the carnage of the Afternoon War. The last thing Masker ever saw were several bipedal creeps trudging toward him, gaping mouths open and salivating, before the largest of them clamped its jaws around his chest and everything went dark.

***Author's Note***

Well, hello again everyone. It's been quite awhile, huh? I won't make excuses. It's just been hard to find the motivation to continue. Volume 3 proved quite motivating, though...and heartbreaking. Miles and Gray sure do know how to drive their fanbase to tears.

Anyway, I just wanted to say again how much it means to me that you all take the time out of your days to read my work. Especially now, as I've recently learned just how short time can be as you get older. Quite simply, you guys are wonderful.

As always, feel absolutely free to drop a review if you so desire. Constructive criticism is welcomed. Just remember to try and keep the reviews spoiler-free for potential new readers. Until next time, everyone. Keep your fires burning bright.

P.S. To returning readers, I apologize for the sporadic title changes and occasional small edits to past chapters. I'd say I'll try and keep those to a minimum from now on...but hey, I couldn't make it a promise. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


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